


Caesura

by emilycare



Series: Sounds of Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Blow Job on the Couch, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Happy Ending, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson appreciation, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Pansexual John Watson, Parentlock, Past Abuse, Past Drug Use, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock's Violin, Soft John Watson, Soft Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilycare/pseuds/emilycare
Summary: The violin is a retreat that eases the quiet of Sherlock Holmes' solitude.  It also speaks for him when he cannot bridge the gaps his defenses create. Moments when music helps Sherlock reach out or let others in, like his stalwart flatmate and, in time, the doctor's daughter.Five+ times Sherlock Holmes played the violin, and one time he did not._____Caesura: cae·su·ra /sēˈzyo͝orə, siˈZHo͞orə/ - As in poetry or music: a break, pause or interruption._____Chapters 1-4 are thematically related vignettes.Chapter 5-9 form an arc starting with John and Rosie moving back in with Sherlock.Ch 10 is an epilogue, set some years later on.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Sounds of Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999348
Comments: 193
Kudos: 169





	1. Troubled Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BakerTumblings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/gifts).



> Written as a gift for the talented and wonderful [BakerTumblings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings) for sharing so much with us all, and giving so generously in all areas of life. 
> 
> Dedicated with deep sadness to the memory of Elijah McClain, who loved the world, his own quiet corner of it and the violin. Learn more about his tragic death and please consider contributing to Black Lives Matter or the many groups working towards racial equity and overhaul of the judicial and law enforcement system in the United States and worldwide. 
> 
> <https://www.marieclaire.com/politics/a32965749/elijah-mcclain-justice-petition-donate/>
> 
> See these gorgeous works made inspired by Caesura:
> 
> [Moodboard](https://loveismyrevolution.tumblr.com/post/633535828409417728/caesura-by-emilycare) by @loveismyrevolution
> 
> [Cover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923929) by @simplyclockwork

The ripples were still settling from the massive intrusion into Sherlock Holmes' life that was John Watson. Sherlock had welcomed it: cajoled the decommissioned soldier into accepting a place at Baker Street, tempted the doctor into accompanying him into his dangerous adventures on the streets of London, and manipulated the man into accepting the unenviable task of reminding his new flatmate to give the least tribute to the needs of transport.

But here he was, a few weeks after their first case together had been solved. The word 'Moriarty' still buzzing low in Sherlock's brain. And the gravity of what he had actually invited into the quiet solitude he'd so carefully crafted was sinking in. Sherlock lay, unsleeping in his bed. He watched the darkness deepen in anticipation of the day's usual cycle into dawn.

First, there was a man living in his home. His home. A hard fought harbor of quiet in a life assailed by misunderstanding and vitriol.

Sherlock had escaped the affluent suffocation of his parents' country home only to get mired with a parade of antagonists and bystanders at University. Strangely the active abuses he'd suffered at the hands of his peers had mellowed in memory to a wan scar, visible but painless. Lessons learned. But recollections of passive witness to his repeated humiliations continued to rankle. From pitying to blase to gleeful, but free from guilt or blame in their own minds. Infuriating. Chance contact with these wounds burned still. 

Applying himself to his studies and learning to wield his 'freakish' insights as sword and scalpel allowed him needed space. He pulled through his degrees, burned through the system at speed with high honors and no motion wasted. He embraced Mycroft's credo: sentiment was a weakness. By the end, Sherlock had found his own byword: alone protects me.

His time with Victor tested then cemented this belief. His descent into addiction placing the final seal, goaded by the acrid debasement of accepting Mycroft's assistance to get clean. All his struggles, all his brilliance yet he collapsed into dysfunction over something so trivial as a passing taste of bliss in another being's arms. Soon replaced by the soul-gutting want of chemicals. It was comical. He could recite the formulae, the chain of processes affecting his exceptional mind. But knowledge this time was no shield, provided no defense. If anything it plunged him deeper into a spiral of self-deprecation at his inability to logic himself out of the trap of his senses. 

Crashing into independence, the Work had rescued him. In it he had found allies: Lestrade, Molly, the homeless network, and--so very grudgingly it was admitted not even to himself--his inexecrable brother. And a place, a purpose, in his self-sworn mission. A new bliss to decipher the hidden mysteries of crime. In the core of the city that had laid its mark on him, even as he had made it his own. London had cast him down to his depths, yet she had raised him again. The balance he had found now was precious. He felt cautious hope that the experimentation that lay behind him had put him on a road that could lead somewhere beyond oblivion. 

So why on earth was he introducing an unknown variable into this intricately constructed life he'd made for himself? 

Back to the inventory. Second, John Watson took up space. Despite arriving first to the flat and intentionally spreading his belongings as far and as wide as he could manage, Sherlock had still left corners and places where John made his presence felt. 

Medical reference texts and lurid adventure novels shouldered their way into the bookshelf stacks amidst Sherlock's chemistry tomes and notebooks. John's laptop had several habitual resting places now, migrating from coffee table to kitchen to chair seat. John's medical kit enjoyed pride of place near the door to the hall. Polished and ready for action. Its gleam reflecting (Sherlock was convinced, evidence free) a sparkle newly re-lit in its owner's eye. 

Most of John's belongings were tidily stored away in his upstairs bedroom. Sherlock had made a complete inspection of the items in the days following their establishment in the flat, once the initial case was closed. John had resumed his shifts at the clinic, and Sherlock relieved the rising tide of boredom by continuing investigations of his new flatmate. Findings confirmed early assessments. Mending and minimal extent of wardrobe indicated precarious financial situation. Browsing history and selection of stimulatory material in bedstand confirmed bisexual orientation. Cleaned (illegal) gun and ammunition in back of closet however showed a change. Stored accessibly, but not constantly to-hand, it gave Sherlock evidence of an increase in feelings of security and decrease in the need for the (regretably) reassuring presence of a way out, in his flatmate. 

Not only taking up physical space, but mental and emotional as well. Precious processing time each day was being dedicated to analyzing Watson's demeanor. Overall trends: improving. John took pride in insisting that the detective eat regularly. And so he ate, too. Sherlock provided expected, as well as truthful, resistance to this campaign but noted the bloom of color that visited and remained in his flatmate's cheeks. Sunken hollows evening out. Spare flesh filling in. A membership flyer for a local gym which Sherlock left oh so casually in a stack of advertisements on the coffee table was retrieved, considered and submitted. Sherlock's own regimen of fencing, rowing and running was uninterrupted but amended by shared weekend jogs that quickly became a staple of their easy interactions. 

Distracting, complex, and so very human. But boring, John Watson was indeed not. 

Third, and most surprising, Sherlock was glad and relieved to have him here.

John's presence on the case had been beyond serendipitous. Life changing, if retaining the ability to think and breath may be said truly to be a change. He was certain he had chosen properly and would not have been taken by Hope's ruse, but he had to admit that without John's shot the likelihood would have been marginally higher that the case John called "A Study in Pink" could have been his last. In this quiet moment, the black of the sky transitioning to a fleeting cobalt blue soon to be chased into grey and gold of morning, Sherlock realized that the near stranger John had been to him that day had cared more about that possibility than he himself had. 

His living space invaded, freedom to indulge in the concerns of his research constrained, and flexibility of his schedule compromised by taking on not just a boarder, but a..companion. Of sorts. What Sherlock could not yet understand was why rather than a burden this new state of affairs felt so impossibly right? 

The quiet was broken. He heard a hoarse voice calling out. A thump. Silence. Then more anguished half-words filtering through the floor boards from John's room above. Sherlock's mind stilled, his attention captured by the man sleeping above him. Then his mind whirled, pulling threads together to spin a simple deduction. His flatmate was in the grip of nightmare. 

* * *

John was parched. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The heat surrounded him. He squinted his eyes against the glare. _Where are my sunglasses?_ He adjusted his collar where it clung to his neck. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he struggled to remain still. _What am I waiting for?_ The sounds of battle answered him. Gunfire bursts. Cries. He peered through a break in his cover, trying to locate the pinned down members of his unit. His ears strained to hear the thrum of helicopter rotors in the distance, but there was nothing. His heart sped up. He readied himself to break from his location to find cover closer to the conflict.

He raced into the open, bent low making as small a target as possible. Pulling up behind an overturned cart he could finally see them. Three ISAF1 soldiers were exchanging fire with two groups of Taliban combatants. Another figure was bent over the fourth. Watson focused his attention on them and started plotting a course he could follow to reach their location. He absently fingered his pack to confirm that it was undamaged. His mind flinched from memories of searching for needed fluids only to find them leaking uselessly to the desert floor.

The sounds of gunfire intensified. He gave a last glance and dashed along the zig zag route he had charted in his mind. The figure above the wounded man spotted him and waved unobtrusively. Watson picked up his pace but agonizingly found himself slowing down. Feet sunk and ankles mired in fine sand. Impossible details came clear to him: a hand holding pressure to a chest, a whispered prayer.

He paused, sheltered by the remains of a shattered building. Close now. He broke cover to make the last dash to reach them and felt an impact like a jolt. His dreaming mind recognized the moment and he suddenly saw the scene as from two vantages. His own body dropping, eternally falling to the ground. A view from above: the enemy forces converging on the ISAF troops, then receding as the thundering force of air fire and pelting winds from rotors sent them scattering. 

Then John was abruptly awake. His leg fallen off the bed. His body tangled in sheets. His body covered in cold sweat. 

**Bam Bam**

No, he hadn't imagined it. There was a banging coming from the floor below him. From terror, John's emotions took a 180 turn to fury. He scrabbled out of the bedclothes and grabbed with shaking hands for pajama bottoms in a drawer. His heart pumping, he stalked to the first floor and flung the door open to his flatmate's room.

"Are you unhinged!?" He saw Sherlock standing in the center of the room, one of his dressing gowns modestly drawn around him. Sherlock folded his hands neatly on a broom held before him. John had the momentary wild thought that Sherlock had been counting how long it had taken for John to come yell at him. "You woke me up!" 

"Obviously."

John's head was spinning. "Why!? It's the middle of the night."

"Hardly. It's getting light already."

"What on earth possessed you to do that?"

Sherlock's mild expression seemed to become even blanker. "You were disturbing my peace." 

"So you decided to wake me and half the neighborhood to make yourself feel better?" John took several steps into the room, until he stood directly in front of Sherlock. This close he could see the shadows beneath the younger man's eyes. For a moment he thought he saw an expression like concern, but the face shuttered swiftly and returned to impassivity. 

Suddenly John was exhausted. His shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face. "Not acceptable." He shook his head and looked up again. He thought he nearly caught another of those looks but he was too confused to be sure. He shook his index finger beneath Sherlock's nose. "I'm too tired now to yell at you properly. But we are having words. Later." 

John retreated back upstairs. He tossed and turned, watching the sky lighten. Then, a sound arose. 

Sherlock was playing his violin. 

The music cut across his nerves for a moment, as Sherlock checked the tuning of the strings. John shook his head again. _What have I gotten myself into?_ The music began in earnest and settled into a soothing melody. 

John fell asleep tapping his finger lightly in time with the tune. 

* * *

1International Security Assistance Force (ISAF), a multi-national coalition fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan. In 2006, elements of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, the successor to the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers which Watson enlisted with, were engaged in the Battle of Nawzad. This fight lasted 107 days, and forced most of the residents of the area to flee. ISAF forces remained to defend remote outposts. Conflict continued in this region for years. I'm compressing time to imagine this region is where John received the injury that sent him home.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]


	2. The Smell of Rosin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Sherlock and his violin.

A sunny classroom is filled with children. They mill and chatter. Violin cases are opened, bows are tightened. Chairs are claimed by parents who wait. The instructor calls to the class in a loud friendly voice, telling them to settle down and take their places. 

The door to the room opens. A tall, dark haired man and matching slender child with curly hair enter. The boy holds a violin case tightly to him. The man smiles down at him encouragingly and motions towards the group. 

"Will Holmes?" says the instructor to an answering nod. He smiles at the young serious face. "You've come just in time. We'll do a few exercises first, so just leave your instrument for now and come find a place to stand." On a marker board behind him the name 'Mr Shadid' is written in bold red letters. 

Young Will lets his father take the black case from him and hurries over. He bumps into a younger girl with honey brown hair who wobbles a bit but smiles at him. He stares intently at her for a moment but does not smile back or apologize. Will tries to discern individual voices in the mass of sounds swirling around him. A voice behind him mutters, "...can't wait until we can break off from these idiotic little kids..." He glances behind him and sees a tall girl with dark brown braids speaking to a neighbor. 

Will realizes that the people around him are making motions as he sees the young girl beside him raise her hands. He searches for a source of this action and finds that Mr Shadid has drawn a series of symbols on the board indicating a rhythm. The children around Will try to clap in time. His eyes narrow and he glares over at his father. The elder Holmes smiles and nods at his son encouragingly. With a huge sigh, Will finds where the group is in the pattern, interprets the meanings quickly, and claps along. His timing is impeccable. His shoulders sag. His eyes roll and he sighs again.

A group of four taller children standing towards the back lead the group with an easy pulse. Smaller children including the honey haired girl smile and laugh at each other, half getting-half ignoring the beat. Two girls have made a patty-cake like game out of clapping each others' hands to rhythm. 

The group reaches a pause. Some stragglers clap a few beats behind. Others not following the written pattern continue until they realize the class has stopped. Will's hand shoots up into the air. 

Mr Shadid frowns slightly but points to Will. "Yes?"

"Why aren't we using musical notation?" A chitter of laughter runs through the room. A couple of the older students whisper to each other, looking in his direction. Will doggedly continues, "Or a metronome?" 

"That's not how we do things here. We're trying to feel the rhythm."

"Is that because the little ones are too stupid to count yet?" A gasp goes up and every head swivels to fix their gaze on Will. 

A very sharp look from Mr. Shadid. "No most definitely not. No one is stupid here, but yes we have students at many ages. We can all do this together." He then addresses the room as a whole, "Speaking of which, good job everyone. We can move on now. Please get your bows and we'll work on your strokes."

A clatter arises. To Will it seems that every voice shouts in his ear at once. He stands motionless, a bit shell-shocked at the anger thrown his way a few moments earlier which is still dispersing. His hands hang at his sides and students shove past him. Several hard stares come his way. An older youth steers a sniffling smaller child to the arms of an adult. 

Will's father brings his instrument over. Will grabs at the cloth and wipes down the gleaming chestnut body of the violin, cleaning the strings of excess rosin and attending to his bow. _This I know._

His father leans down and says in his ear, "Best see the lie of the land before piping up, my boy." 

"Yes, Daddy." 

Ten minutes later finds Will taut with impatience and temper. The students each hold an imaginary violin beneath their chin, real bow stroking empty air. Will quivers with the need to ask a question, to complain about this useless activity. He wants to be working on smoothing out the long strokes of his legato bowing[1] or tackling the short, brisk strokes of sautillé[2]. Flapping his arm about in midair couldn't possibly do anything to help with that. 

A bow knocks into the back of Will's head. He turns and sees the dark haired girl with braids still behind him. She is looking at the teacher. He resumes his pretend bowing and gets bumped in the back of the head once more. Soft snickering comes from nearby throats. Will does not turn again, but instead moves a step forward hoping to be out of reach. _When will this end?_

After a break, the class is divided into two groups: a large mass of younger children, and a smaller body of older children with which Will is placed. _Thank god. Or something._

* * *

"He really doesn't belong here," says Mr. Shadid quietly. 

Sigur Holmes waves Will to go wait outside. He hangs back after the class to talk with the older man who had skillfully shepherded this shifting mass of youthful energy into what seemed a lively, productive group lesson. Sigur is impressed with the way Mr. Shadid had helped the older students' greater focus and ability inspire the younger students. They offered a model, while not taxing the limited attention spans of the rambunctious youngsters. The younger children had spent the second half of the lesson playing tag games to the sounds of Mozart and Vivaldi, while the older students further practiced songs. He recalled seeing something in the literature for the group saying that although children could start at any time, parents were encouraged to begin a child's relationship with the music as soon as possible. Beethoven in the birthing room and all that. _Unscientific, sentimental clap-trap._

Will's father wrinkled his brow at the instructor, trying to take in what he'd said. It made him re-consider his own assessments so far. 

"You think so? We know it's likely not a serious interest, but it had seemed that he'd shown a little promise."

Dark brown eyes in a time-weathered face open wide in surprise and the instructor shakes his head. "No, no. I don't mean that he's hopeless. Quite the opposite. He's motivated, shows excellent instincts and has insights far beyond his years. But I think that learning in a large group context like this is more likely to hold him back. Especially given his..awkwardness around other children. How long has he been playing?" 

"Oh? That's good to hear. It's just a little hobby he's taken up recently. Since the winter holidays. He's been taught the piano and can read music of course, already. But last year he was obsessed with dinosaurs and greek myth. He wouldn't stop talking about the constellations for a whole month. Now he's on about pirates and violin music. Next month it's as likely to be race cars and parakeets as anything else. He just seems to dabble. It would be fine if he picked an instrument but we don't expect much to come of this, really. We're trying to get him a grounding in math. He's got a good mind for it and we think he'd be suited to the sciences."

Mr Shadid struggles to keep several emotions from crossing his face. "The boy is six years old."

A shrug. "Well, his brother showed more focused direction by now, it's true. Not like he has to pick out his university and profession tomorrow, but if he wants to make a mark on the world, there's no time too early to start. He's got potential to achieve great things. But this? We don't want it to side track him. Some of these students have been exposed to violin since before they were born, correct? He can't hope to compete with that." 

"Why on earth should he have to compete? If he loves it, surely that's reason enough?"

"You think he's good then?"

"That's not what I said--"

"Ah, yes. Well, we did want to get an informed opinion about whether it was worthwhile to pursue." 

"Hasn't he been getting private instruction then?"

"Oh, goodness, no. He insisted on getting an instrument for Christmas. And since then he's been knocking about with it on his own. Got some books out. I think he may have watched a video or something."

Mr Shadid stared at Mr. Holmes dumbfounded. "He's self-taught, to this level, in just a few months?"

"He's been at it almost day and night. We had to send him out to the woodshed when he first started. Sounded like he was killing the cat." 

* * *

Will runs out of the car, throws the door open to the house and tosses the violin case forcefully onto the bench in the mudroom.

"Sigur? Will? How did the class go?" Mummy's flowing voice spills out from the living room. Will wipes a tear from his cheek and stays silent. He stealthily heads away from her direction, entering the kitchen and making for a door that backs onto the garden and woodlands beyond. He pelts out into the sunshine. The feel of grass beneath his feet relieves some of the pounding tension in his chest immediately.

He runs on, entering the woods. Crisp leaves crunch underfoot. The rich smell of humus enters his nose. The sound of water rushing comes to him and his footsteps lead unthinking and unerringly to the streamside. Not breaking his stride he leaps, his hands catching hold on a branch. He pulls himself upwards, wriggling first one leg then both and then his whole body up onto the sturdy branch. The tree shakes as he clambers higher. He settles on a wide level bough. A black and white flag crossed with skull and bones hangs from a branch beside him. It flutters in a light breeze that tagged along with him beneath the canopy.

Sherlock leans against the bole of the tree. He shuts his eyes and tries to push away the images pursuing him from the lesson. Children laughing at him, sneering. Mr Shadid's voice saying "he doesn't belong here." His father's sighs. The screeching horrible sounds his violin made when he first tried to play with the experienced students. Moisture prickles the corners of his eyes. His shoulders heave. Will cries and cries.

* * *

It is several weeks later. The violin has lain on the bench long enough to get in Mycroft's way. When Will sullenly refuses to answer questions about whether he is going to use it again, it is placed in the hall closet along with skis, a fishing pole and a set of jigsaw puzzles that only appear during the most rainy of summer days.

Will's mother, Violet, knows that something disturbed her child about the class he attended. Though the account from Sigur seems innocent enough. Will of course put his foot in his mouth with the other students, but she suspects his skin was going to thicken fast given his propensity for such miscalculations. She really does wish he would just listen to her and her husband about being circumspect with feelings of contempt. Mycroft is so good at it, she couldn't understand why her youngest had to blurt out whatever he was thinking. Blending was a talent he does not have, apparently. Not yet anyway. 

Last week, the teacher had reached out to them. Sigur took the call and discussed with her what was proposed before agreeing. Mr Shadid wanted to speak with Will. He understood that Will was choosing to reject the instrument and wanted to offer some other options. He thought it was worth trying to find some arrangement more agreeable to the young man, before he lost the benefit of the time he'd already spent learning. And the potential of what he had to gain.

Violet doesn't feel strongly about it one way or the other. Will is doing fine with the piano, and she understands the demands of mastering an instrument. She had had some pretentions to the flute as a young girl, but mathematics had become her whole life soon enough. 

Still, it wouldn't hurt. And the man seems invested. Her son is so solitary in his ways. Encouraging a person of talent inclined to mentor him seems prudent. But good luck to this teacher in finding a way to convince Will to pick up the violin if he indeed was finished with it. If he is lacking the focus her older son seems so plenteously graced with, her younger son is endowed even more richly with a pugnacious temperament. 

* * *

Will is informed Mr Shadid has come to speak with him. They meet in the music room. Mr Shadid brings his violin. Will sees his own instrument sitting on top of the piano. He frowns. They sit facing each other and Will waits patiently for the man to speak. To lecture him, then go away and leave him in peace. He has plans for the afternoon that involved boarding and taking a Royal Navy privateer, then working on a new model for a snare he is sure will work. He has spent enough days now with the leaden lump in his stomach that has replaced the ecstatic thrill he'd used to feel at the smell of rosin. He is trying to forget what the music once meant. 

"I brought you something." A flat, round palm-sized object wrapped in tissue paper is placed in Will's hands. He knows what it is, knows he can't keep it, but he opens it up anyway. The deep amber cake is translucent. 

Will hands it back. "You should give this to someone else." 

The man accepts the shining cake of rosin. "It's a bit unusual, actually."

Despite himself, Will's curiousity is piqued. "How?" 

"It has copper in it."

Inquisitive fingers retrieve the object and hold it up to the light. A small brow wrinkles and eyes shift sidewise skeptically. "It doesn't look different." _They all lie._ "Why would they put metal in? Wouldn't it hurt the strings?"

"It's very fine. Special rosin may have gold or silver or even lead. And copper. The chemical properties of the metals change how the strings and the bow interact." 

Will relaxes fractionally. _That could be true._ "Like how different color rosins are good for different conditions, right?"

"Right. Gold warms your tone. Silver brightens. Copper mellows the sound. It's good for beginners." 

The tension slips back into the small frame. He had forgotten it was over. "You should give it to someone in your class then." 

Mr Shadid takes the cake back and places it beside Will's violin on the piano without comment. 

"Will, your father said you became interested in the violin recently. What made you want to play?"

"During Advent, musicians played at church. There were violins, violas, cellos." Will closes his eyes and can hear the lead violin soaring over the others, filling the rafters with glorious sound. His smile disappears and he shrugs. "I'd learned to play the piano a little. So maybe I could learn the violin, too." Guarded, he looks the teacher in the eyes. ["It was beautiful."](https://youtu.be/Jdy-tiwPD5o)

Mr Shadid nods and smiles slightly. "Yes, I can understand. It's a lovely instrument. I didn't start playing until when I was older than you." He pauses, searching Will's face to see if he is engaged, then continues. "Music was part of my life. I played in my village in Iraq. Played the drum, the jawzah and the oud. Violins were less common. Very expensive. It wasn't until I was almost your brother's age that I was able to get one, with the help of my family." His eyes become distant, then return Will's gaze again. "When we had to leave I brought it with me. We lost so much, but the songs helped me carry some of home." 

Will doesn't ask why Mr Shadid had to leave his home. His parents and Mycroft talk about politics and the wars often at dinner. He can't grasp the death and grief this represents, but he adds this great loss to what those words mean. 

"Will you play with me?" Mr Shadid asks.

Will is surprised to find himself nodding. He ignores the new rosin. He gets his violin ready rather numbly. Not thinking about what this could mean. What he had let go. Mr Shadid checks his posture, corrects him slightly. Adjusts his elbow. They stand together next to the piano and Mr Shadid asks Will what he would like them to play. 

"Ave Maria?" The boy shifts through a stack of sheet music on the piano and finds it. 

They play the Schubert together. Then a piece by Bach. Will asks Mr Shadid to teach him a song from his home. The cadence is different than what he's played before. There is a longing in the music that speaks to the young man. 

Will's playing is halting at times. Coordinating reading the notes with the bulk of the violin and the movements of the bow sometimes escapes him. Playing with someone else is intriguing and exciting, but off-putting and confusing at the same time. Will grits his teeth each time they must grind to a stop over his limitations. Mr Shadid is uniformly patient and encouraging. 

Violet Holmes brings them lemonade. Mr Shadid thanks her, Will remains silent. She gives the teacher a gracious but noncommittal smile, then leaves them. 

As they ready to play again the teacher asks, “What did you notice about playing this way, Will? Or do you prefer William?” 

Will shrugs off the question about his name. “Will is fine.” He thinks for a moment, remembering. 

“And what about the class compared to practicing on your own?” Will’s whole body changes. The guards he had relaxed jump back into place. He looks at Mr Shadid with suspicion and pain. 

“You said I did not belong.” 

Mr. Shadid swallows his regret and looks directly at the boy. "That was not what I meant."

Will's eyes are downcast. They glisten.

The man puts a gentle hand on Will's shoulder. "Will, I'm sorry you just heard part of what I said to your father. I told him that the group wasn't a good place for you to learn." Will pulls away from his hand. "You can already read music. You don't need the exercises to learn rhythm..." 

"But I can't play as well as the older kids. I'm..bad at it." Will wipes off silent tears. 

"Will, please trust me. You are not bad at this. We just played Ave Maria and Bach's Minuet in G Major. You've only been playing for six months, and all on your own."

Intense blue-green eyes meet the older man's at last. "But they were so good!" he bursts out. "They could just play, and I screeched horribly." He reaches out and grabs the teacher's sleeve, bow still in hand. "I can do much better than that. I practiced so hard to get ready for that class. But then I was so bad, and none of it made sense. And you said I should go away." 

"I am so very sorry. That is hurtful, and not at all what I intended. You can be proud of what you've accomplished. Of course it doesn't always go right. You are learning. No one expects you to be perfect."

"But I don't want to be treated like a child. Playing stupid games because I don't know any better." 

"Yes, exactly. You don't need to play those games, but you can still get help. That doesn't mean you are stupid, or worse than anyone else. Everyone has to learn. Everyone makes mistakes."

Mr Shadid picks up the rosin. "Take this for example. This lets the violin help you. It sweetens the tone. People who are learning can get a good note more easily. You need to use rosin anyway, so why not use something that will help you enjoy it more?"

Will considers.

"And you can join a smaller group of students if you'd like. Find learners at your level so you can look to them for support and you can help them. Being there with little kids and big kids seemed to confuse you. You weren't sure quite how to interact with either group."

Will nods, still looking unsure. _Children are baffling._

"Or, we can play like this together." Will looks up with a hopeful look in his eye. He is wavering.

Mr Shadid kneels down, until he is at eye level with the child. "It sounds to me like you fought to learn the violin. It found you at the church, but then you chose it. It speaks to you." Will nods. "Then don't let one afternoon's mistakes--and I mean my mistakes, Will, not yours--steal that love away from you. A teacher's responsibility is to help a student be able to learn. I'm sure we can do that together. And then you will have this," he gestures to Will's instrument, "forever. For as long as you like. It will be yours no matter what else is taken away." 

Will slides his violin out from beneath his chin, folds it with the bow into the crook of his left arm, and reaches out to put his right hand on the teacher's shoulder. He nods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Legato - long, smooth even bow strokes which connect notes and maintain continuous accent and volume. [return to text]
> 
> 2Sautillé - a short, fast mid-bow stroke with a bounce or rebound of the strings.[return to text]
> 
> Read about the ancient musical heritage of Iraq and efforts by individuals and organizations such as the Ruya Foundation (https://ruyafoundation.org/en/) to preserve Iraqi music and culture in the face of war: <https://www.csmonitor.com/World/Middle-East/2015/1028/In-Iraq-young-artists-seek-to-heal-a-musical-heritage-wounded-by-war>


	3. Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is "dead." Chasing Moriarty's network. He gets occasional updates from Mycroft on John and the others. After his time in Serbia, he has barely escaped (without Mycroft's aid). Weak and recovering in Romania from captivity and torture. He feels tired and very, very alone.

The night was warm and wet. Andreea shifted the basket on her hip, thinking over the work she had set for tomorrow. Her oldest girl, Maria, would bathe the little ones. Matei and Răzvan would arrive early to begin the harvest. The bobbing gold heads of wheat in her fields gave her cautious hope for the season. But she knew better than to rest her heart on the future. Today they had enough to feed her children. If the boarder's promise carried through, that would help her buy a new thresher. Her grip on the basket tightened. _At least I'm sure he will survive now._

Doctor Bogdan had brought the limp figure to her early one morning. Dark, curly hair matted and body laced with wounds. He had been robbed and beaten in Serbia, needed a place to recover. A shed on her land gave him some shelter and her the prospect of some extra income. He wasn't the first Swabian[1] she'd seen arrive seeking to capitalize on the cities swelling in the wake of Romania's acceptance into the European Union. After his misfortune, he was lucky to be alive, to have a chance to end his family's long exile from the Banat[2]. She knew some German, and they could make themselves understood to each other after a fashion. He seemed to be picking up Romanian quickly.

She smiled to herself. Her sister's hints that she should feed some hungers not sated by bread and soup had grown less subtle as he recovered. He had looked like a whipped dog at first: ashen, unkempt, broken. But the blush of health revealed star bright eyes and lean, lanky strength, and her own thoughts had inched in that direction. Until she saw a look in those eyes she’d seen in her own mirror. When her beloved Grigore had taken his final turn. She could bind his wounds, but this was not a free heart that she could help heal. 

Reaching the small grey wooden structure, Andreea shouldered the basket containing apples, cheese, bread and milk. And a package marked Wilhelm Sigorescu which her guest had been awaiting. He would surely be on his way again soon. She spared a thought to send a prayer winging skyward on his behalf. That he might find his fortune, and his heart find ease. 

* * *

Sherlock leaned against a poster-littered wall of the small post office in the determinedly bustling center of the small town in western Romania that had become his unlikely sanctuary. He opened the secure phone Mycroft had sent to him, hoping that the wavering cell signal would be stronger here. 

Tuesday 23:18

 _ **Sent**_ Confirming destination Timișoara. - SH

 **Number Not Available** What, no hello? Off on your solo adventures for months and that's all we get?

 _ **Sent**_ Hardly adventures. Was unavoidably detained. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Injuries?

 _ **Sent**_ Sufficiently healed for travel. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Arrangements for transport may be difficult to make discretely. 

_**Sent**_ Don't land the helicopter in my landlady's goat yard. The neighbors may talk. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Precisely the issue.

Sherlock stood and turned. His head swung to scan the posters layered on the building. His eyes lingered on the bold lines of an earth tone woodcut illustration decorating a band's list of tour dates and locations. _Useful._

_**Sent**_ Assistance may have been identified. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Resourceful as always. Should I be worried?

 _ **Sent**_ Hardly likely. - SH

 **Number Not Available** You underestimate me as always. 

_**Sent**_ Likewise, I'm sure. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Your silence was troubling. 

_**Sent**_ I may be done. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Signs are promising. We're cautiously optimistic that the goal is in sight. 

_**Sent**_ Not sure that concerns me any more. - SH

 **Number Not Available** That is troubling.

 _ **Message**_ _(I can't do this any more)_ _deleted_

_**Message** (What is the point if I never--) deleted_

_**Message** (I need to be home. I need to see--) deleted_

**Number Not Available** K

 _ **Sent**_ Will discuss more at safe haven. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Should I send the usual? 

_**Sent**_ Yes. - SH

**_Attachment received._ **

Sherlock opened CCTV stills from outside the Baker Street flat. In one Mrs Hudson sweeps the walk. Another shows John sitting at a table in front of Speedy's with an attractive woman his age. ( _Co-worker, may also have military background. Newly his lover.)_ She is smiling at him. John's back to the camera. The next was a sharper image of John standing in front of Sherlock's neatly groomed grave and headstone. Sherlock could clearly read the anguished tension in John's shoulders, jaw and clenched hand.

 _ **Sent**_ Ignore last. Aim me toward goal. - SH

 **Number Not Available** Will do so. Keep safe.

_(Do you want to delete this conversation?)_

_(Conversation deleted)_

* * *

The bar was brightly lit in the deepening twilight. Music and laughter rang out into the street. All seats were taken inside, so Sherlock leaned against the bar. He paid the bartender for a foaming glass of the ubiquitous local draft and exchanged polite nods with a couple he'd worked with to bale straw a few days prior. All hands were needed on Mrs Radu's farm and he'd been judged fit enough to render service until his departure. Looking around he saw other familiar figures. Unconsciously plucking details from the worn shoes _(pig farmer, rugby player_ ) and wrinkled faces ( _looking to remarry, angry with his parish priest_ ) of those surrounding him he saw one universal truth. The weight of the economic miracle of Romania passing them by was lighter on each person's shoulders as they raptly watched the band play. 

Two violinists stood in the center of the ring of musicians. A tall bass plucked to a steady rhythm underlay the sharp staccato refrain of accordion keys. Sherlock recognized a cimbalom, similar to the hammered dulcimer, played by a seated man. A vast flock of bright twinned chimes shook free beneath his hands. As Holmes watched, the violinists caught afire. Heads close, eyes locked, they interwove swift flying notes. One wearing a dark cap looked through half-lidded eyes and swiveled his head slightly in time, his shoulders loosening even as the bow in his hand seemed to swoop faster of its own accord. A feral grin lit on the other violinist's face as he followed in the wake of his partner, pacing this ascent with gliding counterpoint. His eyes found those of the other band members and as one they stilled. The entranced violinist punched through this window and carried the whole room straight up to the the stratosphere.

Sherlock followed. For the first time since stepping out onto the rooftop of St Bartholomew's Hospital, he felt a shard of peace. Sustained applause filled the room once the band brought the number to a close. Beneath the roar of laughter and chatter that followed, Sherlock breathed the feeling in. In his mind, John stood next to him with that half smile and crinkle of the eyes that told Sherlock he was understood. 

A break. The band members scattered, flirting with attractive audience members, squeezing a hug to mother or spouse, getting a cold one. Sherlock saw his opportunity. The recently rapturous violinist stood in a crush of people waiting for service at the bar. Sherlock raised his untouched glass of beer as an offering. He greeted the wide smile and rapid flow of Romani that came his way with an apologetic phrase first in German, then Romanian. He pointed with his chin to the man's instrument and received a clear invitation to join for an inspection. 

The instrument sat on the table, artless and worn in its untransfigured state of stillness. The earth dark wood of the sides transitioned to a stormy black on top and bottom. Sherlock's near-healed hand shook slightly as he reached to pick it up. It was a key to bring him one step closer to home. It also was home in a fundamental way. 

The violin was soft to his gentle touch. Seeking permission he put it beneath his chin and plucked the strings. He tried to remember a part of the melody from the song just played. A bright smile from his companion told him he'd gained point. He was handed the bow and they spent the next little while over the strings together. One sipping warming beer and humming loud enough to be heard over a fast lubricating room; the other trying hard to hear and replicating what he could from memory of that hallowed song. Laughter over mistakes warmed Sherlock as much as moments of triumph when he found the trail of the melody.

Once Sherlock was able to play the full sequence through, committed to memory forever now as well, he looked a question and started playing a different tune. The proud look on the violinist's face changed to one of curiosity and appreciation. Sherlock breathed deep and took himself back to a time long ago. He heard the tone of his teacher's violin, sharing this tune from his mentor's own past, his own home.

The full melody played out, a second violin was retrieved and the learning sequence was begun again, this time with the exchange going the other direction. Other members of the band started repopulating the table where they sat. The background roar dulled and dimmed as the line to the bar receded and most of the bar's clientele retook their seats. Sherlock abruptly cut short a note when he realized that only a low murmur now divided them from the attention of the room. His companion played on a bit, finishing a line he had mastered and asked Sherlock a question in Romanian. With his assenting nod, the Romani musician turned to speak with his fellow band members. 

When the room had grown all but still, the black capped musician stood and a final hush came down. "A song from our new friend." Sherlock stood and raised the man's violin to his shoulder and began "[Weep my heart](https://youtu.be/YJ5V6ud7ubw)."

* * *

Sherlock thanked the lead violinist, Lasho, later for joining in with the other violin. It had been nearly two years since Sherlock had played, and he was still rebounding from his extended captivity. He acquitted himself admirably, but the support mattered. It felt so freeing to be part of the music.

Lasho pressed him to keep playing his violin for another song. The band played a crowd favorite danceable number which Sherlock followed along with fairly easily. He relinquished the instrument after that, but when the band finished their final set for the night, it was a unanimous decision to bring "Wilhelm" along to Tawni's house. They were planning to drink and play for many hours more. A vodka-pinked Sherlock in the wee hours found himself tempted to forget Moriarty. Forget London. Forget.. 

"Lasho, Timișoara?" Holmes recalled that Tawni had a Swabian girlfriend, Ecaterina, and asked her to translate his request. 

"'My friend, of course we'll bring you with us to Timișoara. I've spoken with Miri, she has an instrument she would be willing to loan.'" 

In a familiar gesture Sherlock had witnessed many times that evening, Lasho enveloped the back of his neck with his hand and pulled the detective into a hug. Squashing down a panic response that could have killed the kind musician, Sherlock forced himself to relax into the embrace. 

As Lasho released him he spoke. Ecaterina translated, "He said, 'you're a long way from home, aren't you?'"

Sherlock nodded. He put his face in his hands for a moment taking in the truth of that statement with his whole self. Then he looked up. A twinkle appeared in his eye. "Can you ask him if he's too tired to learn another song? There's a composition of my own that I made for a friend, I'd love to share..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music in this chapter was inspired by the Romanian band Taraf de Haïdouks. This whole story was basically inspired by a scene from the French film Latcho Drom, about the immigration of Romani people from India to Europe over many centuries. The film consists of musical vignettes, including this heart wrenching song about the dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu by the world renowned violinist Nicolae Neacșu: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlWLuchrMuQ>. Neacșu is accompanied by a Cimbalom player. See this video of Taraf de Haïdouks performing that inspired the descriptions of the concert in this chapter: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pT4IufMeyYA>.
> 
> As you may be aware, Romani residents of Europe were subject to genocide during World War II, have been expelled, killed and oppressed for centuries, and continue to face tremendous discrimination. An organization that works to raise awareness and provide resources for these communities is Romani CRISS. Learn more and support their work here: [https://www.romanicriss.org/](%5Burl%20goes%20here%5D)
> 
> The song that Sherlock plays is called Win Ya Galub (Weep My Heart), a traditional Iraqi folk song which has been a major popular hit. For more performances of compositions and traditional music from Iraq, Iran, Istanbul and beyond, see these playlists: (begins with Win Ya Galub) [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJ5V6ud7ubw&list=RDYJ5V6ud7ubw](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJ5V6ud7ubw&list=RDYJ5V6ud7ubw); [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fImldyMRpsE&list=RDfImldyMRpsE&start_radio=1&t=21&t=33](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fImldyMRpsE&list=RDfImldyMRpsE&start_radio=1&t=21&t=33) and [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igxARWXvpHc&list=RDigxARWXvpHc&start_radio=1&t=11](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igxARWXvpHc&list=RDigxARWXvpHc&start_radio=1&t=11)
> 
> 1Swabians are historical German inhabitants of Eastern Europe who were recruited to colonize the region during the 17th century to strengthen Austrian foothold in war-torn former Turkish-held regions. Variously fought for both sides in the WWII, with communities and individuals participating in as well as objecting to atrocities. Expelled from Romania under Communist rule. Descendants return to this region as economic factors allow. Fluent in German, Sherlock is using this background as a plausible cover. [return to text]
> 
> 2The Banat is a divided region, spanning Romania, Hungary and Serbia. Founded in the 9th century (CE) as a frontier province of the Bulgarian Empire ruled by a military governer or "Ban." Later controlled by the Ottoman Empire, then Austro-Hungarian Empire and briefly had independence (for two whole weeks!) after World War I ended. The unofficial capital is the largest city, Timișoara in Romanian. [return to text]


	4. Giving You Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is home again. He plays for John and Mary at their wedding.
> 
> (This story--particularly this chapter--is canon adjacent, not compliant.)

Sherlock had said vastly too many words this day. He opened the case and brushed a finger down the hazel belly of his own stately violin. One more task. It had been the first and would be the last for him in the Herculean labor that John and Mary's wedding had become.

Golden points twinkled, reflected in the lustrous wood. Lamps lit as the day dimmed to dusk and darkness. Eager hands had transformed the reception hall. Rolling aside tables where the guests had sat, first in delight, then suspense and on through deep embarrassment as he'd wrested control of the narrative to navigate through the fatefully eventful day. 

Not a man to do something so pedestrian, much less stupidly superstitious, as count his blessings, nonetheless the detective breathed a sigh of gratitude that his brother was not present at the wedding. Bad enough that Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade had been lobbing platitudes in his direction for, it seemed weeks now. About things changing with marriage, about people moving on and growing apart and coming to terms with change and knowing that they'd be there for him.

He'd deflected their concern with contempt and even made it through the harrowing process of making the Best Man's Speech by a mixture of speaking the plain truth as he saw it and dipping into unvarnished sentiment. He'd fulfilled their inexplicable desire to feel sad at what they all went to such pains to say was a happy occasion. None had seen the true depths of his fear and anxiety.

Lifting the instrument he placed it on his shoulder. With a gentle, professional grip, Sherlock clung to the life raft that was the neck of his violin. 

Mycroft would have seen his brother's grief in a heartbeat. Sherlock was spared the burden seeing that knowledge reflected in his brother's eye would have been to him. Sufficient to let the assembled host believe he was angry to be inconvenienced by the loss of a helper and dab hand at tea. The real depth of the loss was his to bear privately. Alone would do quite well in this instance. To help protect against the disaster his choice to let go of his defenses had wrought in his heart. He would come to forget what John's presence had once meant. In time. He was certain.

Now he just had to make it through this one more song and his duty would be done. It had been the first thing his heart had leapt to when he'd witnessed their engagement. He had written countless songs for John during their acquaintance. Songs about John that John had never heard, or had heard never knowing they were about and for him. But this would be that step beyond. Something for the new chapter of life John was now beginning. 

From the moment he'd learned John was to wed Mary, he'd taken the bull by the horns and leaned fully into supporting the process. Even as Mary had embraced Sherlock wholeheartedly in turn. They saw in each other an equal for John's love. The price of keeping him was accepting the other. A wordless bargain was struck. 

There was something about her he could not name that seemed out of place. He had Mycroft continuing to dig. But his own judgement was that despite any secrets she may hide, her love for John was true. Whatever was necessary and possible to protect his friend, he would take those steps. Even from his own sadness and regret. John had suffered far more than his share. He deserved this happiness.

And, selfishly, as surrendering John to Mary's tender mercies was the sole path open to him, Sherlock aimed to eke out a place in his friend's life. Even if he was simply remembered as that odd housemate in time. John might say, "Sherlock may have been shite at feelings and nearly killed himself to spite villains despite knowing I'd never have agreed to let him head off into the hinterlands all alone, but he did do a good job as Best Man. He made sure we had a bang up wedding. Wonder what he's up to these days?"

Sherlock paused in his regimen with the instrument. Checking the tuning (A-string had dropped a hair less than a quarter tone since he'd tuned it while the caterers were arriving), tightening the bow (a new wooden bow he was still adjusting to, not one soul had thought to check the tension during the almost two years he was gone, another reminder that some things could not be repaired once broken), stretching and loosening his own sinews, and bringing himself to the centering of body and mind that would allow the music to flow (utterly impossible).

What noxious impulse had set him to play something now? When what he wanted to was to weep with his bow. To be home, alone and defended in his sanctuary to mourn in peace. The admonishments by friends of John's inevitable drift away, helpful salt for the wound, were nothing to the reassurances he'd received from the man himself. They had the Work. Nothing would change. He'd come over all the time. They'd keep on with cases. _Lies, pretty lies._

But the worst part was that John believed every word. He had full confidence that they would continue on as before. That nothing indeed had been changed by a few heartfelt words, some rings and names exchanged. But John of course was in the dark. He had no idea how Sherlock's heart was breaking. And this was just exactly as the detective wished. Any moment he'd observed inquisitiveness or doubt from John, he'd redoubled his efforts to convince him. Falling into the role of Best Man, of conveyor, of instigator for the wedded bliss as he could. The ultimate disguise. John was always taken in so easily by them. This time was no different. It was utterly different, of course. The end of times. 

The exception had been the waltz. The damn music. His heart was too entwined in it. He could never lie to John with music. All he could do was obfuscate and deflect, so he'd done that masterfully. Approach, not retreat. He had to give him the waltz. Then he had to teach John to dance. 

John. Awkward John. Perfectly able to do it, he'd said. I don't need your help.

_"Shove off, Sherlock."_

_"Really, John. There's no need to be embarrassed. No one would ever expect someone of your upbringing to have waltzed before."_

_"Oi! You're going there? Now you can take your waltz and.."_

_"Fine. I am sorry for bringing up the insufficient resources available to your working class family, especially since you were saddled with a father who abused your mother and spent the meager time he watched over you and your sister in your childhood running you down and convincing both of you that you'd amount to nothing. Not to mention the battery he subjected your sister to once she came out and what I can only imagine he would have done to you if he'd ever discovered--" Sherlock finds a strong hand clasped around his collar and himself shoved bodily back against the garishly Victorian papered surface of their back wall._

_"Sherlock," John barks out. "I thought you were trying to do something nice here. For a change." John's breath huffs like exhaust, heated against the detective's neck. Sherlock feels his own pulse skyrocket as he looks down into the dangerously narrowed eyes of his flatmate and, apparently, best friend. John then gasps, "Sherlock, oh god, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--" Various options flash through Sherlock's mind about what to do in response. He settles for none of the ones his heart yearns for and choses instead to press the strategic advantage this situation offers._

_"Perfect, John." He pulls John closer, then easily breaks the hold John's fingers have on his shirt. John blinks rapidly. His body language had shifted from aggression to guilt, and now to something indefinably else. Sherlock deftly slips his hand into the doctor's suddenly slack grip, then moves John's other hand to the divot of Sherlock's own narrow waist. He presses it there and gives an unconvincing yet bright smile to his friend. He taps the play button on his phone and then settles his hand on John's shoulder. "You'll pick it up in no time. Just follow me and I'll show you how to lead."_

"Sherlock." Sherlock snapped back to the present and was surprised into giving a genuine smile to his friend. _My dear John._

"You all ready to play?" 

"You nervous?"

"Nah. Well, maybe a bit. I'm not sure I can do it without counting out loud." 

"Stop thinking. Just follow the music, and look at your wife. You'll know what to do." John opened his mouth and gave Sherlock a look. Then he closed it again and gave a rueful smile. 

"Thank you."

"It's nothing. Just what a best man would do."

"No. Not really. But an exceptional man?" 

Mary came into sight. A circle of guests had formed and expectant eyes were on them. A final look between the partners. Sherlock gave him a wink. Then John was stepping out into the center of the circle, taking Mary's hands in his own, and Sherlock began to [play](https://youtu.be/72Qx3B4T2mw). 

* * *

Saturday 19:32

 **John Watson** mate, where are you 

**John Watson** sSerlock, you are not allwed to leave

 **John Watson** i mean it

 _ **Sent**_ Enjoy your wedding, John. - SH

 **John Watson** bloody can't if you're not here. what the hell Sherlock. you are my best man get back here.

 _ **Sent**_ You are inebriated. The guests have begun leaving, but there are still 42 members of the party who are not likely to depart for another three hours, John. And the majority of them are under 50 like yourself and Mary, so you have plenty of people to share in the festivities with. By my calculations, you'll be well engaged until at least 23:00 hours, after which you and Mary can begin the customary sex holiday you've been planning on celebrating. 

**John Watson** FUCKINH ELL you do not get to talk about my honeymoon like we're bloody dogging on the beach. 

_**Sent**_ Not my intention, John. Honeymoon is of course the polite term. And it will begin soon. As you said, there must be some limits. Unfortunate timing about the pregnancy. Mary will be cautious about alcohol intake I am sure. But better to know than to have regrets later. - SH

 _ **Sent**_ Enjoy your party. You don't need me. - SH

 **John Watson** You stupid git, you don't get to tell me what I need. I need to dance with my best friend and that's final. 

**John Watson** Do not ignore me, Sherlock. I've been drinking water and am sobering up. You cannot go home. I know you're skulking about somewhere on the grounds having a cigarette

 **John Watson** Just come back. 

**John Watson** I know you want to, you berk. No more speeches. No more cases. But I can't let you go without dancing with me. 

_**Sent**_ We already danced, John. - SH

 **John Watson** No, we didn't. You left before the slow songs were done. You bloody dance with Janine and you won't come back to me. 

**_Message_ ** ( _What the fuck, John Watson. You do not have the right--) deleted_

 _ **Sent**_ It is expected for the Best Man to dance with at least one of the Bride's Maids, I am given to understand. I have done so. - SH

 _ **Sent**_ With some notable exceptions I have endeavored to act like a human being today. For you, John. Duty served. Leave me be. - SH 

**John Watson** OK. 

**John Watson** But I know you don't want to leave. You gave your self away, mate. 

**John Watson** I know now and it can't be unsaid.

_What did I say? Couldn't have been to Janine. She obviously thinks I'm gay but I said nothing to her that could possibly disclose my feelings about John. Was it Lestrade? Mrs Hudson? I tried to school my face, but I can imagine having betrayed myself that way to either of them. Or Molly. I did come closest to saying something to her. But no, John, I said nothing that showed my heart. Nothing at all. Not to you, not to Mary. Nothing except the complete truth in those ridiculous speeches, that I don't deserve your friendship and that I will never leave you. Or Mary. Or young Watson. What are you talking about?_

**John Watson** cmon 

_**Sent**_ What can't be unsaid? - SH

 **John Watson** You love to dance. 

_**Sent**_ Janine. - SH

 **John Watson** Yup. She would never last under interrogation. She gave you up.

 **John Watson** What did you mean we danced?

 _ **Sent**_ Waltz. - SH

 **John Watson** Oh! You mean when you taught me to dance? That barely counts. 

**John Watson** I think I stepped on your feet twenty times. 

**John Watson** And that was just at home, quiet the two of us. I loved it, but it hardly counts as dancing with me at my wedding. 

**John Watson** Sherlock, I know you didn't want to be my best man. I don't understand at all why you didn't get that of course I would want that. 

**John Watson** And I know you hated being around all these people. And I know you did it all, all of it, for me. 

**John Watson** And Mary. But her because of me. 

**John Watson** and I apprec that. really do. you are the most aggravating friend a man could have, and you've endangred my life as many tmes as saved. srry fingres getting crmped

 **John Watson** but please come back. really. i don't want to start my life tomorrow with the last thing i remember is us with blood on the ground between us and then you playing that honey gold song for us and telling us THAT and then just disappearng. 

**John Watson** we've spent so long apart, Sherlock. i you have to come back now and enjoy this n ight with us. i need you here sherlock. 

_**Sent**_ Mary needs you now. - SH

 **John Watson** you are still there then. i know it won't be the same. but Mary gets to have me in her bed for the rest of our lives. 

_**Sent**_ And you got mad at me for calling it a sex vacation? - SH

 **John Watson** you know what i mean. i only get to have you in my life now for cases, and mad races to the NSY, and rescuing you from hospital when you get shot because you didn't bother to tell me you were going somewhere dangerous. 

_**Sent**_ You'll have a baby now, John. - SH

 **John Watson** yes, and so i want you to be there when that child is born. and i want you here now because i love you, you stupid wanker, and nothing is going to change that, no matter what else happens 

**John Watson** Sherlock? I'm sorry. I know you hate sentiment. And I told you that already. Repeated myself. Horrors. I'm sorry. I'll never say it again if you don't want. But give me this moment. I

 _ **Sent**_ John. - SH

 **John Watson** What? Oh there you are 


	5. An Early Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is moving back to 221B Baker Street, with Rosie. Mary is gone. He is adapting to single parenthood. His relationship with Sherlock is healing. And things are actually better than they've ever been. But John has some catching up to do.

John closed the boot on the hire car. A strong wind shook green and golden leaves on this crisp Saturday morning in September. He took a last look at the building where he'd begun and ended his married life such a short time ago. His heart felt numb and thick.

Far too early, he'd woken beside his baby girl in the emptied shell of the flat he'd shared with Mary. Each step he'd taken since then felt like he was walking through the bottom of a well. Between harsh dreams, his daughter's chaotic schedule upended by the loss of one caregiver and the child's own constantly evolving needs, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept sound. 

At present, Rosie was making the low, oddly mechanical sound Sherlock referred to as 'winding up' which signaled she was getting ready for a proper cry. She was belted safely into the car seat of the small economy model he'd reserved. Mycroft had offered to send a car round but John put his foot down and ordered his own. His independence from the smug bureaucrat's influence might be an illusion--made even more transparent by this move back to Baker Street--but it was one to which he would cling.

John hurriedly finished stuffing the car full of crates and bags bearing oddments he and Sherlock had been too exhausted to pack up the weekend before. They'd moved his boxed things already, and all the largest pieces that John was keeping: book shelves, changing table, a lovely maple rocker that Harry and Clara had bought them. Rosie had just grown out of both the bed extender and bassinet she'd been sleeping in. So a crib had been ordered and should be waiting at 221B to be put together fresh. Rosie might spend a night or two in the portable baby carrier turned car seat, or the foldable play pen which was her favorite place for a nap. 

The future tenants were thrilled to benefit. John was leaving behind all the living room and kitchen furnishings. The matching dressers Mary had picked out for them. And the bed. John had been sleeping on the day bed in Rosie's room for months. He had barely stepped foot in the bedroom except for clothes, since Mary had made what he now accepted was her final exit from their lives. 

An elaborate shaving table they'd been given as a quirky wedding present by Mycroft made the cut. It sat by the door holding keys and coins, never used to purpose. John almost abandoned it too, until he realized that the dark wood and Victorian styling would be just at home on Baker Street. It had never fit in among the fawn, cream and khaki snare of beige that was their family flat. _Like me._ He didn't let himself dwell on the thought.

 _What's next?_ Practicality was cure to the poison that flooded his mind when it roamed free. What was of need this moment, what would Rosie want for tomorrow -- those had become his mantras. His own todays would take care of themselves. And yesterday was not to be considered. Not yet. 

Slipping into the driver's seat, he leaned into the back seat and put a warm, reassuring hand on Rosie. Her sounds quieted as he whispered loving nonsense and rubbed her belly soothingly. She calmed further as he put the car into gear and set off. The immediate task was near completion: moving back to Baker Street. The next paired set of concerns took its place in John's mind: making 221B safe for Rosie and finding a way for her to fit into life there without intruding unduly on Sherlock. Problem solving steadied him just as the movement of the car lulled the frayed nerves of his daughter. 

John began a quick list of the toxins, chemicals, weapons, diseases, body parts and highly breakable equipment which had graced the Baker Street flat during his various tenures. He got distracted musing on how many human bodies could have been constructed from the contents of morgue take-away bags Molly had sent home with Sherlock over the years. If his unfettered partner had fallen a hair more on the Victor Frankenstein side of things. His daughter gave a sigh, and he felt his own tense muscles ease slightly.As he navigated city streets that seemed alien from behind the wheel, he breathed in something fragile. Unformed emotions and a single word, _Home._

* * *

_Trust does not come easily to John. From his earliest days, he has to be the reliable one. Strong for his mother. A shield for his sister. A bulwark against his father. Joining the army is the first time he takes a step for himself. It symbolizes independence, self empowerment, finding a place to call his own. In practice it is a progressive process of surrendering his agency. Becoming a weapon to be wielded by others, a balm for a wound endlessly distressed. Led to unceasing travel across distant lands, moving further and further from finding a place to put down roots._

_But he is valued. He is trained. He is given purpose. He is accepted. And desired. It is the closest to belonging he has found. Even as it makes him more and more of a stranger to himself. Alienated from whatever he himself might want._

_The wound is his exit. And then Sherlock is home._

* * *

Pulling up outside of 221 Baker Street, John inhaled deeply. He braced himself for the next steps in the coming ordeal. He'd been in touch with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson by text, but he hadn't been back to the flat as he'd planned. Getting through the work week, chasing the tube, handing off to child care, getting things sorted with patients before taking extended time off, and the bone weariness that underlay it all--had overwhelmed him. His mind filled with the chaotic sprawl of belongings spread around the flat when he left it the prior Sunday. _Perhaps Mrs. H has been through and had a tidy._

His head drooped over the steering wheel. He'd already squandered the lead he'd hoped to gain on this latest change. He owed it to Rosie to establish some order. At the minimum, to finally get close to caught up on laundry. His emotional state had tanked after the further revelations about Mary and the tense, explosive situation leading to her departure. His privilege, his problem.

_Let it go, Watson. Next steps. Gather Rosie, get her bag. Rouse Sherlock. See if..._

A knocking at the window startled him. Wild black curls, wide bright eyes. His limber flatmate leaned palms against the car, bowing his height to peer in at John. 

_Dodgy git._ A slight smile curved John's lips and a feeling of warmth woke in his chest.

* * *

_The first day they spend together, John kills a man for Sherlock._

_He has no idea this is going to happen yet. Right now they are sitting at a cozy table at Angelo's. It is the first of many times that others will mistake them for a romantic couple. It is the first time John considers that possibility._

_He's spent less than 24 hours in this fellow's company. But it takes less than 24 seconds for him to understand that this was no ordinary person. And within 24 minutes he is dazzled and intrigued by that laser sharp mind, brilliant alluring eyes and unaccountable acceptance of, even desire for, John's presence. He's been wanted in his time, but everything has changed. Right now all he can see in the mirror is a useless husk of himself._

_It takes a hold of John's spirit in a way he doesn't understand. Some deep part of him thrilled to this connection. Head spinning, full of confusion, bowled over and more than a little annoyed, yet each moment he spends in Sherlock's company makes him hungry for more._

_As he sits across from Sherlock, watching candle light glint from those raven locks, he finds himself probing to find out if there is potential for more than friendship. It makes no sense. He's just met the man, moved in with him even. Looks to be making some kind of business connection (if chasing after criminals and crowding the police in their line of duty could be called in any manner professional). A thousand red flags on their own, much less to the thought of even considering some kind of romantic connection. But he just can't stop himself._

_"Unattached, like me," he says, "Or do you have a girlfriend?" "A boyfriend?_

_But then, with the asking, comes an answer, answers. "Not my area." "I consider myself married to my work."_

_John of course accepts it. Unusual, but what about Sherlock isn't unconventional? "It's all fine."_

* * *

A small miracle has transpired in the flat. Boxes were neatly piled. Several which had been full of John's books were unpacked, his reference volumes and pulpy paperbacks finding their way back to familiar resting places. Rosie's toy box took up a new position of honor, centrally located in the living room. Sleek filing cabinets with lockable drawers stood near the window, home now to masses of case files and research. And, true wonder of wonders, a child-proof screen had been secured to the hearth. Fireplace implements hung from newly set hooks so far out of child reach they were nearly beyond John's.

John somehow took this all in stride. It was definitely surprising from his partner, who when he had first moved in lifted not a finger to help and had done all he could to leave only the smallest space for John to occupy. John suspected that some not so subtle guilting from Mrs Hudson or a lecture by Lestrade had made it all happen.

But then they brought up the loads from the car to his and Rosie's room. John laid eyes on the gleaming, newly assembled crib. Sherlock's vulnerable apologies about taking liberties with setting up and assurances that all could be re-arranged made the source of the effort all too clear. It pushed the new father far over the line into sentiment.

He crushed his cool flatmate in a hug (as much as he could with a sleeping child snuggled in a carrier between them). A watery-eyed embrace that lasted far longer than he could imagine the impassive detective being comfortable.

Sherlock stilled and tensed as he often did when John touched him. But John was quite unable to let go. He inhaled the scents of wood smoke and cedar-saffron hair product that clung to his flatmate. His chin resting on a tall shoulder, John heard the reassuring sound of his friend's breath. He held on. In the absence of rejection, John took this moment. Pent up need for contact overriding the careful distance he maintained to respect his friend and protect their connection. Water lapped over the dam. Today, it was just too much.

Sherlock put up with this liberty, and John felt a slight pressure returned. Sherlock's arms around him. He blanked his mind and soaked it in until young Watson broke the moment. She made a snuffling sound that was the typical start to her wake-up routine.

John moved away, grimacing in embarrassment, an apology on his lips. But another surprise, Sherlock shook his head dismissively, and lay his hand on John's shoulder. It lingered there several heartbeats after they separated. A whole 'nother round of emotion swelled within John. He shook himself and smiled. Attempted to get a hold of his rampant emotions.

He appreciated how great a concession this was. John was painfully aware of each moment of contact with his best friend, physical or emotional, and the reluctance that accompanied. It was less pronounced since Sherlock's return, and had shifted even more with his growing bond with Watson, as he invariably called John's daughter.

But still, this moment's openness meant even more than the hours spent building furniture and adapting the flat. John locked it away as a treasured memory. With quiet nights between cases. With sharing the stars. With learning to dance in his arms. 

* * *

_The soft lap of interest then disappointment John feels that evening at Angelo's is just a hint of the successive waves of exhilaration and crashing loss he goes through as he falls deeper and deeper in love with his friend, and flatemate, and partner in solving crime._

_He retreats to finding others to date, to redirect his growing feelings of attraction to willing objects for his attentions. It soon becomes apparent that not dating men is a necessity. All male-presenting candidates are thoroughly if (mostly) unconsciously measured up against his friend and inevitably come up wanting._

_Then when Sherlock sabotages date after date, relationship start after relationship start, John begins to wonder if he's perhaps misunderstood, misjudged?_

_But the fall at Barts happens and there is only loss. Only the grave staring John in the face again. That companion for a lonely soldier, whose place in his life Sherlock staved off for the 18 months of their acquaintanceship. Back with a vengeance._

_Until Mary enters the scene. Finds him like a gift from heaven._ _Perhaps sent from the other place, now that John understands why they met._

_Sherlock returns. Another wave, another shock. All the love John had felt, all the loss, all the grief. Every bit of emotion he'd ever felt, it seemed. Erupting then draining out of him that moment when he saw Sherlock living and breathing again. He'd socked him for his troubles. His damn father showing his face in John. If it wasn't the Reaper it was his father shadowing John's steps every moment of this lifetime. Spreading hurt and pain into all that John holds most dear. But after the jolt wears off, he has to consider what this means. Could he wed Mary despite how he feels about Sherlock?_

_Though he'd never admitted it to her, he is sure Mary knows. He almost thinks he sees something pass between the two of them. But when Sherlock is the biggest supporter of the marriage, John is convinced. Sherlock does not want him. John even asks him to be his best man, thinking this is how Sherlock sees him. A friend. And there is no one John trusts more or wants closer to him than Sherlock. Even if it is to help him find another love._

* * *

John relaxed in his chair by the fire.

Nearby, Rosie giggled brightly from Mrs Hudson's lap. They sat together with Sherlock on the couch. The gregarious child beamed under the joint attentions of two of her favorite people. Age-lined hands held her gently upright. Sherlock played peek a boo. He sent Rosie into peals of laughter interspersed with long, quiet suspenseful moments.

John watched his daughter engage, her face full of inquisitive attention. There was something... John realized that Sherlock was holding back revealing his face for longer and longer intervals. Catching her attention if she got distracted. Through subtle cues he encouraged her to linger, waiting in expectation for the reappearance of that beloved face. _He's training her already._ A pang struck John, some shadowed fraction of the pain he'd felt those years ago outside Bart's. Echoed into remembrance of Mary sitting in this room between them, Sherlock still reeling from the bullet she'd put in him.

John looked away. Shifted the protective screen to poke the fire. He leaned back and shut his eyes against the pain and the pleasure. _Will it ever not be too much?_

He woke to the smell of toasted cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. The fire had been tended. A fresh glass of water sat on the table near him. He heard quiet chatting, burbles and the occasional childish yet distinct syllable. She'd be talking before she could crawl if things kept going this way. 

"John, you can take a nap if you want. I've got her." 

"Nonsense, Sherlock. You've entertained her for.." John checked his phone and practically leapt out of the chair. "hours! I'm so sorry." He scooped the youngster out of Sherlock's hold. "I'll feed her and after lunch she and I can take a little lie down together." 

Twin furrowed brows and expressive frowns told John he might have made a mistake. The affronted cry of his child and an aggressive lean out of his arms in the direction of his flatmate made sure he understood the degree of his crime. He attempted to juggle Rosie for a moment, shushing her and trying to comfort. Then he realized it was a lost cause and surrendered her to the now ever so slightly smirking detective. 

"Don't mind your Dada, Watson. He's just grumpy because he needs more sleep. Don't you worry," John heard him say as he headed to the kitchen and began deftly snagging baby food jars one-handed. "We'll set him to rights soon enough." 

* * *

_John puts in for three weeks off from the clinic to follow his move back to Baker Street, with the option of more. Everyone understands. He needs time to organize and settle in. His colleagues who chat with him about the break respect that he is attempting to give Rosie a sense of security. Her mother has disappeared, now she would be moving away from all she'd known so far in her short life. Of course, it helped that she was moving to her home away from home. Both 221A and 221B had been places she'd frequented since birth._

_What John's colleagues don't know--he'd told no one except his therapist--was that he was also taking this time to consider what shape his life would take. It would stretch his meager savings to take more time, but he considers beginning a search to find a more lucrative position. Having sole custody of his daughter not only means that he had to provide daily care for her needs, but also that his earnings would be all that she could look to for her future. His work with Sherlock brings in money as well, but he's curtailed his involvement in favor of his family. Though moving in would make it easier to take part, he can't face taking Sherlock's money for work half done._

_He has to look ahead. He had to be responsible. One day he might find another relationship, someone to share the burden and the love, but his shattered feelings recoil from the thought of seeking out someone new._

Thank god for Sherlock. _If he didn't have his friend to fall back on now, he wasn't sure what he would do. Likely move in with Harry and Clara. But his sister's life has just found a new point of balance, sobriety and reconciliation with her wife lifting her from a depth of depression he well appreciated. How could he possibly do anything that would endanger that for her?_

_What John never considers is that he himself desperately needs the break._

* * *

"Night, Sherlock." 

"Good night, John. Watson." John stepped away from the quiet of the living room to bring Rosie up to his room. He felt calm and peaceful. It had been a joy of a day.

But Sherlock wasn't done. "John..." John stopped on the stair and turned to face Sherlock. The detective stood, looking grave, hands clasped. Looking down at her, John judged that Rosie was well out on his shoulder already. This was as good a time for them to get some discussion in as any. There was still so much more to work out. 

"Yes?" John walked towards Sherlock.

"May we talk about something?"

"What? Sounds serious." He sat down on his chair again. Cozied his feet up to the glowing embers of the coals in the fireplace. 

Sherlock hesitated. John waited.

"You've stayed over some times since..but never with Watson."

"Yes," John thought he understood. "Oh, of course, we haven't talked about the noise. You'll have thought of getting ear plugs, I'm sure? For those few precious moments you do sleep of a night, the last thing we need is for Rosie to wake you up." Sherlock had a non-plussed look on his face. "You, know I actually have some. Mar--we sometimes would use them when the other was up with her." He made to stand again, "I'll be right back."

Sherlock held up a restraining hand. "No, no, John. Nothing like that. Though you are correct and that is eminently practical. But I have several pairs of noise-cancelling earbuds and ear plugs." He remained silent, looking intensely at John. 

"You're really worrying me now. What is it?" He swayed with Rosie to ensure she would stay asleep. 

Sherlock took a breath and dived in. "Your sleep. Dreams. Watson. I want to know. To ask if." 

"Sherlock, spit it out." 

Looking into the middle distance, Sherlock began again. "You have a history of traumatic dreams, John. And the training to harm others when they wake you should you be surprised." He looked over at John intercepting the beginnings of a massive glare that he'd expected. He headed this off. "I know for certain you would never harm your child, and you surely must have worked something out with Mary. But..I want to know if I may help if Watson wakes in the night. And I don't want to surprise you." 

John looked a bit stunned. "You're asking..."

"Your gun is in the safe we moved last weekend, correct? Or is it with Lestrade? I know you are in the process of getting a license. But what I really want to know is, can I enter your room at night and tend to Watson, or will I be risking my life? Or endangering hers?"

The look Sherlock gave to Rosie at this moment made John rethink all his assumptions about Sherlock and expression of feeling. A spectrum of love and fear and tenderness and determination were all on display. John closed his own eyes momentarily at the well of feeling this brought up in him in return. Sherlock took a breath and his face cleared. If he'd not seen it himself, John would never have guessed this was more than an idle conversation. _What else is he hiding?_

"So, you want to help with Rosie, when she wakes?"

"Yes, John do keep up." That was the Sherlock John knew. "You're absolutely exhausted. You look terrible."

"Well, thanks."

"You know what I mean. It's a mercy you are taking this time off. If you hadn't I was considering one of those, interventions on your behalf."

"Sherlock, that's almost sweet."

He scoffs. "I'm just thinking of the child, John. And as for caring for her at night, it's simply logical. As you noted, my needs for sleep are minimal. I'm confident that I could provide some distraction and feeding. It would surely improve your efficiency during the day. Both for caring for her, and for assisting me in the Work."

"Ah, ha. Of course. And I'm sure my co-workers at the clinic would never complain."

"Who cares what they think. I still think you should eliminate that job and work full time with me." 

"Sherlock, you've got to be kidding! We've already been talking about doing a bit less with her around." As if knowing she was being spoken of, Rosie whimpered in her sleep. Eyes fluttering beneath her eyelids. John stood and shifted from foot to foot, rhythmically rocking his daughter. She relaxed again. 

Sherlock went on, more quietly. "Exactly. There are plenty of boring cases we could take. Most of those are much more lucrative than the truly engaging ones."

"What, we could have been making bank all this time?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you didn't mind finding another partner when I died from boredom." He winced. "I'm sorry, John. I'll remember not to make those jokes some day." 

Instead of reacting with hurt or anger, John instead found himself yawning. He shook his head. "It's fine. It's all fine, Sherlock. I haven't--well, that's not true. I have been having nightmares again since Mary left. But therapy has helped me work out my responses. It was better even when I nursed you, remember?" A nod. "I'm too tired to argue. So let's try it. I'll leave the door cracked and if you hear her in the night, come on up. It's probably all academic anyway. Since she's eating solid food as well as the bottle now, she sleeps much longer stretches." 

Sherlock looks askance at that. "John, your eyes, your bedwear, the state of her teething ring, the history on your phone and a thousand other things tell me you're lying." 

"Not lying!"

"Exaggerating then. I'm sure Watson has made good progress." He stood up to move closer to the two of them, and a glimmer of the love he'd shown earlier echoed on his features as he looked down at the young girl. If John hadn't seen the unshuttered version of that look, he might have missed or dismissed this slight display of fondness. Sherlock looked up at John and the expression lingered. Some energy in the man settled. "But it's been far too long that you've taken care of others." He went on even more quietly, "Accept some help, John. Please." 

* * *

_When John marries Mary, it is in part for his relationship with Sherlock. It takes their friendship off the hook for the final time, or so he thinks. Sherlock will never have to deal with John's mutinous libido tempting him with inappropriate thoughts about the man's neck or hands or..._

_John cares about Mary, he loves Mary. And if he can't forget his deeper attraction to Sherlock while married to a beautiful woman who loves and admires and is committed to him, and who is quite caring and lovely in bed, then there is no hope. John would remain in his special personal hell, or heaven. Because the only thing he can not face out of all the options open to him, is losing Sherlock again._

_And then, Mary shoots Sherlock._

_And then Sherlock convinces him to forgive her._

_And then they have the baby._

_And Mary learns that having a child, being married, being with John turns out to not be what she'd hoped. It is not what she wants after all._

* * *

John woke with a start. Watson--Rosie was gone from the crib. He blinked his eyes, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. _Sherlock has her. It's fine. He has her._ His sleeping brain tried to calm his racing nerves and parentally charged limbic system, til he heard the haunting sound of a violin. The tension slipped from his body, and a smile curled his lips. The whisper sweet sound of those strings had eased him from nightmares more times than he could count and they were inextricably linked with a sense of peace and being cared for, to John. Then he recognized the song itself, and he scrambled out of bed. 

"Sherlock!" 

"John?"

A blissful scene of domestic tranquility greeted him. Rosie was awake, grasping a bottle in her hands. Gazing, eyes half-lidded, at his detective who stood in a deep blue dressing gown. He was playing a private concert to the just past nine-month-old in her high chair. Lights reflected in on them from the street, glowing gold and shining black.

John realized that he was looking at the two people most dear to him in the world. His treasure unhidden, laid bare by the press of fear in his veins. The hand of night drew the veil back from what he could never admit to himself fully in the light of day. 

Sherlock laid his instrument aside and approached him calmly, hands splayed out before him in a gesture of peace. "John--it's fine. Watson's fine. No one else is here. _**She**_ is not here." He came close and laid a gentle hand on John's arm. John could only imagine what expression must be on his own face. 

"That song."

"Oh." Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. "I'm so sorry. I never thought you would wake. You had collapsed. I was..trying something." 

"With our Waltz?" 

"Yes. I...well there are these theories about music children have heard in the womb. And even though she was just a wee thing at the wedding, I wondered if perhaps.." 

It all became more than John could process. He closed his eyes and leaned in to the hand that Sherlock had left resting on his upper arm. The burden of the past came rushing in. The relief so strong. Sherlock continued talking, reassuring John, explaining himself. John couldn't open his eyes or make the effort to speak. He just felt the warm hand on his arm and felt whole for the first time in forever. _Rosie's safe. Mary's gone._

"John, sit."

John came back to himself and found he was sitting in his chair across from Sherlock in his. Rosie still drank from the bottle, peacefully in her chair. Sherlock had that serious look on his face he'd had earlier. _Is this what co-parenting with Sherlock will be like?_

"John, I'd like to teach Watson to play the violin." 

John, smiled in amusement. _Talk about getting ahead of yourself._ "Mate, you realize she's having trouble holding the bits of cheese we give her to eat, right? I don't think she could handle your violin just yet." 

A roll of the eyes. "Do you think I am an idiot? Of course we won't give her a violin today. And she certainly won't be playing mine any time soon. There are suitably sized ones, that are appropriate for a child." 

"You mean cheap to replace in case she smashes it, right?" 

"That is a possibility." 

"Okay, sure. But that's years from now. She's not even one yet. Why worry about this now?"

"There is research that has shown that exposure to musical traditions can assist in the assimilation of knowledge. If you'll allow me to play to Watson, she can take in a tremendous amount of information before she's even conscious of it. The rhythms of music, melodies, the sensation of the notes even..." 

John was distracted from the words Sherlock was saying, by the expression that was lighting up his face. It looked like expressions he'd seen on his detective's face before, but in superimposition. It combined the fervor he brought to a particularly hard fought solution to a case, with the easeful ecstasy that took him over when the violin gave him what he sought. John nodded thoughtfully and rose to take the finished bottle from Rosie. He lifted her from the chair and brought her back to his place by the fire. 

"Sherlock, so you want Rosie to be as good as you are at the violin?"

"No, of course not, John. Watson is going to be much, much better." 

John had to smile at the pride and confidence in Sherlock's tone. 

"All right then."

"Alright?"

"What are you waiting for? No time like the present to start if she's going to show you up."

Sherlock, scratched his nose to hide a smile. He stood, hefted his violin and began to play the wedding waltz again quietly. 

"Sherlock.. Not that one." 

They exchanged a speaking glance. Sherlock began a different tune. John remembered it, but couldn't place it. 

"Is that one of yours, too?"

Sherlock nodded over the instrument. He paused a moment. 

"I wrote the other for the two of you. This one is yours, John."


	6. Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the pause between Christmas and New Years. Martha Hudson was looking forward to a quiet day on her own.
> 
> (retitled)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be the final chapter, the +1, but instead it will be split into parts with this being a bit of a case fic. So, here it is a little early. I'll get you the next come Monday.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for reading and commenting and kudo'ing and passing links along. It is life'sblood and I owe you all so much gratitude. Every heart and heartfelt deep dive gladly welcomed!!!
> 
> ed: 27 July 2020. It's taking longer to finish this chapter than I planned! Thank you for your patience everyone. <3

The day after Christmas dawned cheerfully at 221A Baker Street. Martha Hudson woke with the light. She rolled over and dreamily watched drifts of snow accumulate on the sash. Stretching luxuriously under the duvet, she smiled to herself.

 _Finally,_ she thought. _My boys have gotten a clue._

Martha rose from bed, pulled on yoga pants and rolled herself a slender joint from the eighth of Stardawg she had stashed in the drawer of her bedstand. She packed full the bowl on the natty little bamboo steamroller pipe Sherlock had gifted her with. Its green finish was the same dark hue as the conifer that now dominated their consulting room. She grinned, puffing, remembering holding Rosie as they bickered good-naturedly while dragging the too-large thing to their flat earlier in the month. 

_"It's her first tree, it has to be special," Sherlock insists hoisting the trunk._

_John grunts, whacked by a branch. "The fact that you'd let us do something so pointless as cut a tree down and bring it indoors is special enough to me."_

_Sherlock lumbers through the doorway."Hush, you'll have Watson thinking I'm Ebenezer Scrooge."_

_"Wait, what, you're not?"_

_"Surely reformed Christmas Scrooge, if anything. I've always been generous with gifts. And you've never had to work a Christmas day on my account."_

_"So, I'm the overworked, likeable Bob Cratchit in this scenario. Things are suddenly making more sense."_

_"Nonsense, that would make Watson Tiny Tim whose life hangs in the balance, and I'll not have you endangering her life even in thought."_

_"Have you seen my missing flatmate? He's 6 foot, sea green eyes and has not a sentimental bone in his body. Perhaps I can hire you to help me find him?"_

Christmas Eve had been perfect. So perfect Martha poked at the memory as she moved through her daily breathing and stretching exercises, just to be sure she hadn't dreamed it. Little Rosie looking like an angel in her gold and silver dress. A crackling fire lit as the first snow of the season started to fall. The scents of chocolate and orange and cinnamon making everyone drool a bit. And much appreciation that the toothsome treats awaiting them were courtesy of kitchen 221A. Stealing John's chair for a comfortable seat by the hearth. Listening to Sherlock play 'O Holy Night,' always one of her favorite moments of the season. Rosie's laughter threading the hearts of the household together with joy. And most surprising, the delight of witnessing her adoptive tenants' burgeoning flirtation unfurl before her eyes. 

John's gaze watching Sherlock read 'A Christmas Carol' aloud. Entranced. Adoring. At peace. 

Sherlock's lingering hands each time he drifted by John and Rosie, or lifted her from her father's arms to take his turn cossetting the girl. Clasping John's arm, caressing his shoulder, grazing his waist. Once alighting daringly on his flatmate's neck. Martha had averted her eyes at the sound of John's gently in-drawn breath. 

She recalled the pungent scent of fir as she listened to Sherlock's violin, circling every moment with a promise of magic. Like a green refrain to a song punctuated by verses of pain and misery, lumbering into notes of redemption but settled now into an air of courage and hope. One that beckoned the singer forward into a different world where they could finally breathe free. 

Ah, that Stardawg weed really uplifted the spirit and unlocked the brain, didn't it? She made a note to thank John's ex, Sarah, again for the recommendation. She felt the kink in her side ease and her snarled shoulders start to release, unlocked by the chemicals and the invigorating activity. She was ready for the day.

Martha checked the cupboards to see if she had the fixings for Rosie's favorite home-made ginger apricot scones. Plenty of flour, butter and apricots, but no ginger. She brewed a quick cup of coffee and thought about which shop was likely to carry enough of the candied rhizome at a reasonable rate. She settled on making a visit to the nearby natural foods shop. Not her first choice. It was just a hair too self-improvement obsessed for her to truly feel comfortable, but they always carried both Sherlock's favorite body powder and John's go-to nappie rash cream for Rosie. Add in the mint, coriander, green apple cold-pressed juice she'd become addicted to, and the four birds killed with this one stone made it worth braving the invariable lecture on longevity diets and negativity purge retreats. She was happy with her current level of negativity, thank you very much. 

A clatter arose overhead. Martha recognized the sharp slap of fleet feet on the stairs and set aside her cup. She had heard this sound so many times before. The game was afoot. No sign of Lestrade outside. _Good._

Martha was up on her feet by the time she heard the sound of John's sturdy, measured step upon the treads. When a polite yet insistent knock sounded on her own door she was close enough to open it before the last rap had sounded. Her startled tenant stood there with his adorable daughter strapped to his chest. John Watson withdrew his hand from the air awkwardly. The other held a brightly colored animal-themed baby travel bag Molly had gifted to him. 

"Mrs Hudson! I'm so sorry to disturb you so early..." 

"Nonsense, John. Come in, come in." She ushered him in and took a look out into the hallway before closing the door behind her. "Would you like some coffee? Or I can brew you up a cup of tea. And should I make something for Sherlock? I thought I heard him out there, too." 

John settled Rosie amidst the chunky black white and gold bumblebees decorating the bouncy chair they had purchased for Mrs Hudson's convenience. The girl's sky blue eyes peered around at the familiar surroundings. John gave her a fond smile and tousled her short golden waves with his hand. "No, I sent him on to secure a car, and make some other arrangements, while I asked you for a favor--"

"Of course I'll watch Rosie. You've got a case then?" She pulled a few items from the fridge and cupboard: bottle, apple sauce, juice, a hard boiled egg, teething biscuits. "Has she eaten?"

"Oh thank you!" John let go of his breath and a measure of the tension he'd been carrying. "It's brilliant of you to do this at the drop of a hat. I just had time to give her the jarred stuff, but she's very interested in real food, so I'm sure she'll eat more for you." He accepted a cup of coffee as they conferred about formula and nappies. John encouraged her to rummage 221B if she needed anything. 

"Will you be out all day, then?" 

John shook his head and shrugged one shoulder. "It's hard to say. This started as a bit of a lark, really. As I've posted on my blog that Sherlock has shifted to truly just consulting for more serious cases and we only do direct investigations on smaller, less dangerous questions, we've started getting visits and inquiries from a wider variety of clientele. We literally had two calls last week about lost cats. I was shocked that Sherlock almost took one. I've been directed now to run through a battery of questions aimed at getting the owners to realize if the cat is still on their own property, and if not then to redirect them to their local council. But the case we are on now also has an animal angle."

Martha put a pot of water on to warm up a bottle for Rosie and absentmindedly tied a bib around the young girl's neck. "You're not serious! What was it, a run-away from the zoo? A kidnapped police horse?" 

John chuckled, "I'll be on the lookout for those. An old..associate of Sherlock's, from harder days, is working security--"

She gave John a level stare across the couch. "John, you don't have to mince words with me." 

"Of course not, Mrs Hudson. He was I guess, a fellow junkie? Recovering drug addict. Had a criminal record from what it sounds like. I'm not quite sure if Sherlock and he met at rehab, or on the street. But either way, after Sherlock got back on his feet, he had a client who was looking to fill a position and Sherlock convinced him this fellow Peterson had related experience." 

"That was thoughtful of him. It's difficult to get someone to take a chance on you once you are in the system."

"He can be. When no one is looking." John looked down at his cup with one of those heart melting looks she'd seen the other evening. _He is so transparent. Can't let him know. He might try to stop._

To give some space to John, she pulled the bottle out of the heating water and tested the temperature on her wrist. "So, did he have a case for you? You'd think it would come from the former client." 

John shook off his thoughts but Martha noted happily that the warmth in John's demeanor remained. "Oh, that's what was so odd about us taking this. When Peterson was leaving work the other night, he saw a scuffle in the road, and interrupted a robbery." He watched her place the bottle back in the pot and shook his head. "We should pick up a bottle warmer for you."

"Oh, don't bother, she's close to done with them. This was fine for all my sister in-law's children, and it's been just fine for young Rosie. No need to change at this late date."

"You really, are a treasure, Mrs Hudson. I'm sorry to land Rosie in your lap again like this. You do so much--"

"Forget it, John. It's a pleasure. Now tell me more about this robbery. Was anyone hurt?"

"No, thankfully. But curiously all parties scarpered, even the person he tried to help. Sherlock's friend was left with the items they had dropped. He was baffled and came to us for help in finding the rightful owner. Such a conscience. The items were a hat--which Sherlock was all over, he loves a challenge for his deductions even more these days--and of all things, a great big fresh goose. An expensive cruelty-free grown one, all wrapped up in white butcher paper, like the old days. I'm sure we'll find it was from some posh farm where the birds have a better pedigree than you or me, or maybe it's from some goose club that's part of a game bird hunting subscription service."

Martha looked at him with a greedily delighted look on her face. "John, you can't be telling me that the great Sherlock Holmes is going on a wild goose chase?" 

A few minutes later, Sherlock walked in on them. Their laughter had finally subsided, but the two of them were still gasping and holding their sides. Rosie and Sherlock both stared at John and Mrs Hudson in equal bafflement. 

"John! Why are you wasting time! Is Watson settled?" He unbent enough to send an affectionate gaze her way across the room. 

Martha, leaned against the stove, weakly turning the heat off and wiping her eyes. "Oh Sherlock. John was just telling me about your case. I just can't--"

The detective's look of impatience deepened. "Then you'll understand how urgent it is that we get moving. John?" 

Martha's eyebrows raised in astonishment, "Urgent. For a goose?"

John stood. His face was flushed and he set the cup down on the table. "Well I didn't get to the important bits yet."

"Really, John, no time to muck about and bury the lede. Mrs Hudson, we've stumbled upon the whereabouts of the recently stolen Blue Carbuncle, a rare diamond of repute and ill omen. It belongs to the Countess of Morcar and for some godforsaken reason turned up in the giblets of an upmarket holiday fowl."

"What!?"

"We really must be going. John, the car is almost here." 

"I'll be along. Just a moment more."

Sherlock scoffed and headed out. John turned to Mrs Hudson and she was surprised by the urgency she saw on his face. It clearly was not about the bird, missing diamond or no.

"I didn't get to ask you my favor--"

"I told you Rosie can stay with me as long as you need. It would be nice if you could text me when you get a sense of that." 

He shook his head. Glancing out the window to see the detective pacing irritably back and forth on the pavement. "Not that. My favor. I need a favor. From you." 

_Oh, this sounds good._ "I'm happy to help, John."

John's voice dropped and he continued glancing out the window as he spoke, as though he thought somehow, some way Sherlock could hear them. Or somehow deduce the content of their words from this distance and through the spider's weave of lace curtains. "I'm planning a bit of a surprise for Sherlock's birthday. And I wonder if you might be able to take Rosie then, as well." 

"Of course! That sounds lovely. Are you taking him out for dinner? She can be a handful at a restaurant. Perhaps we can have drinks together after so I can toast him as well? Or were you thinking about combining it with the celebration for Rosie's birthday. Though I know he likes to keep it small."

The color in John's face deepened. "Um. I actually was wondering if you could take her for the whole night. We'll do something different with friends for Rosie. But yes, for his birthday I was thinking of maybe keeping it quite small this year." 

Martha made a valiant attempt to not beam at the man. The bloom of crimson that took the place of the pleasant pink flush on John's cheeks and neck told her she'd likely not quite succeeded. "Oh. A quiet night together. The two of you." 

"Yes. Correct." 

"Well, John, I have to say I'm thrilled for you! I'm so happy. I've been waiting so long for this--"

John's embarrassment tipped over into mortification, and he immediately did all he could to extricate himself from the conversation. "Well, can't keep him waiting. We can talk about details later. Thank you!" 

She caught his sleeve at the door. "John, you do realize he's going to know, right? Now we both have to keep the secret and that's just not on." 

"Oh God. Mrs Hudson, please don't let him. I mean it's fine if he guesses I want to take him out that night, but if he doesn't. If this isn't what he wants--" He looked at her in an agony of fear. "Maybe this is the wrong idea." 

_Oh no you don't._ Martha took a hold of John's shoulder and shook him gently. "John Hamish Watson. I will not have it. You've made your plan and I tell you it's a good one. It's the right one. I have not stood by for these years watching you waste away for loss of him, then get him back and still throw your life away with both hands by marrying **that** **woman**." John flinched. "I didn't tell you that story about regretting marrying my no good nothing of a husband for no reason, my dear." _Listen to me, my boy, please._ She waited for him to nod and then she continued. "Do this. You both deserve it. And do not worry about me letting the cat out of the bag. I've got my tricks where Sherlock is involved."

As if summoned, the detective threw open the front door. "John! The car--" He took in their positions and John's state and his ire became protective. "Mrs Hudson, what have you done to John?" 

She looked him full in the face. "Just letting him know what I'll do, to you both, if you let anything happen to dear Rosie's caregivers. You're supposed to be taking safe cases and this diamond has a curse on it for goodness sake." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but accepted her words. He tugged John bodily out of her hold and dragged him out the door with a parting shot to his land lady. "There's no curse on that gem not put there by the greed of humanity." John threw her a grateful look. The door closed, and they were gone. 

Martha Hudson returned to her living room, finding Rosie beginning to fuss. She pulled her out and united the child with her bottle, calming the girl. 

"Oh yes, Rosie darling. I think this will be a very good year indeed." 

* * *

The shadows had long since claimed the streets when John and Sherlock returned. Rosie drowsed after a long day of shopping, cooking and making visits. The girl had been thrilled to get some 'woof' time as she called it. Martha's sister in-law Mrs Turner had a pair of German Shepherds who were both wrapped around the young girl's finger. After lunching there, they'd delivered a set of newly knitted sweaters from Mrs Turner to the women's shelter one tube stop down. Martha got to amiably not correct anyone when they exclaimed over her beautiful 'grandchild.'

But when Sherlock appeared to claim her while John made arrangements for their supper, Martha was grateful to be able to pass along the child. _Have to pace myself better when we do the overnight. Oh, but then perhaps we could plan a trip to the zoo..._

The detective sat on Mrs Hudson's couch and cradled Rosie on his lap in the curve of his arm. The bag and extra nappies were neatly gathered on the table. Martha sipped her last cup of tea and pondered his continued presence. _Has he figured out John's plans already?_

"Mrs Hudson, I wonder if I may speak with you." 

"Go right ahead, Sherlock. Is everything all right? I take it the case is resolved."

He huffed dismissively but with good humor. "Oh, yes. Claridge's was thrilled to reclaim the Countess' 'misplaced' stone and set right the hotel's tarnished reputation from the theft. They were all too ready to quiet talk of contamination of their toffee-nosed holiday bird program, and released the poor plumber they'd been incriminating with no proof more than that he'd done his job on a holiday." 

"Your friend wasn't involved was he?"

"My friend? Oh, you mean Peterson. What has John been saying? My--" he blinked thinking, "fellow former addict acquaintance, was properly rewarded for his honesty in coming forward about the bird and the stone. We saw to that." His eyes flashed with righteous anger, then the expression on his face mellowed. "And at John's timely suggestion, the proceeds from the birds, and half of the reward money are being donated to charity." His smile expressed all the fondness his words avoided. "And," he tapped his chest, indicating the contents of an inner pocket. "We claimed the other half of the reward money. Which should be quite adequate to take care of several of this one's needs in the New Year." He looked down at the child in his lap not bothering to censor the feelings showing on his face. Martha warmed herself at the sight. 

With that same glow in his eyes, he looked up at Mrs Hudson. "I have some plans I could use your help with." 

_Oh! Calmly, Martha._ "Of course, my dear. Just say the word. I'm here for you." 

"Yes." The love in his eyes shifted to a fondness she realized was for her alone. "You certainly are. I.." His voice roughened and he looked back at Rosie. "I'm not certain I can ever repay you for all you've done for me. For us, really." The glow in his eyes spilled away. A darkness took away the light. _Ah._

"He hurt because he cared for you, you know. And that was because of all you'd done for him." 

"Yes, all I'd done to him. And it nearly broke him." His voice was quiet. Martha saw his usual guards shifting back into place. She came to sit next to them on the couch and placed her hand on his where it lay on his lap. But she said nothing. 

Martha thought of the times she'd helped Mycroft retrieve Sherlock from relapse. She thought of the danger nights when she'd helped John stand vigil. And she thought of the day she thought they'd interred her dear friend in the ground. The shock she'd felt later when he returned, miraculously. She saw again the blank desperation that had taken hold of John after Sherlock fell. And the roiling anger that had taken residence in him after the detective returned. And the incredible relief that had been able to bloom once they had come to terms before the wedding. She thought of the life she saw in John's eyes again with Sherlock at his side. The joy she'd seen in them both these past months. The new man Sherlock seemed to be with Rosie and John with him. She tried to think of words. To tell him what it meant and that it would all be worth it some day. 

His eyes rested soft on her. "You've always understood." 

"Someone had to." She curled her hand around his and felt it clasp hers in return. "Though I have to say I despaired when you let him marry her." His grip tightened. "I dredged up every last cliche about people moving on when they marry, trying to get through your thick head to tell you how much you were letting go." His face softened with remembered grief. "Oh, Sherlock. You've made your own life as hard or harder than his. And given it up even. You can't keep breaking yourself to try and save the people you love. Try just letting them love you for a change? Maybe?" 

He closed his eyes, and opened them glistening. "I am trying. Now." 

She touched his cheek softly. "Dear boy. You know you're the only son I'll ever have, don't you?" She lingered in silence for a moment, then slapped him with no heat. "So stop this rubbish. Tell me what you're planning for your young man up there. I'm happy to watch sweet Rosie whenever you need." She stood up and began gathering up Rosie's things for him to take up stairs. "But do it quick, before John starts to worry that we're conspiring with you staying down here so long."

Sherlock shook off the sentiment which had sanctified the moment and smirked at his landlady. "After that little performance this morning? Did you finish picking caterers for my birthday before we left or did you do that for him while we were on the case?" 

"I hear Claridge's has some lovely fowl. Perhaps we can add the dinner to your tab?" she said unperturbed. "I'm not going to give over his secrets. Come tell me yours and then go put that beautiful child to bed." 

Sherlock stood, holding Rosie. Taking the bag from Mrs Hudson he said, "On New Year's Eve, I want to play for John. I want to let him know how I feel." She nodded up at him in response and he continued. "Would you mind watching Watson that night, down here?"

"Of course, my dear," Martha said. Then she reached up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Finally."


	7. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock enlists Rosie's aid with a song. John gets a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These boys are taking their own sweet time to get together. What I thought would be one chapter is turning into several. Thanks for hanging in there with me!

The hours dwindling, Sherlock wondered if he should let it go for the night. Then he heard a sound from above. Closing his flatmate's laptop, he left open the page on urban apiaries he'd been browsing. Quietly walking up the stairs he paused at the entrance to the Watsons' room, the door ajar as was their custom. A slice of warmer darkness crossed the floor intersecting with John's bed. Rosie's voice shuddered out from the deeper shadow. Sherlock lingered a moment, his eyes adjusting. He saw the curve of John's shoulder. The angle of his chin. A suggestion of softness where lay the silver gold of the sleeping man's hair.

_How will he be tonight?_

Some nights when Sherlock picked up Watson, John would be dead to the world. Despite lightening his work load, he still worked at the clinic and was training up a replacement. Those days when patient interviews and the dressing of wounds coincided with pacing Sherlock to follow down leads or a challenging day with young Watson, John would sink down. A blunt weight on his narrow bed.

When the ex-soldier was haunted by phantom pains of body or mind, the signs were immediately apparent to Sherlock's attentive glance. Eye and hand twitched. His body in some capricious pose. A mumbled word or formless phrase. On those nights Sherlock often found a gentle action softened the harsh lines on John's face. A hand on his shoulder. A calm whisper, _You're safe, John. Watson is safe._ Sherlock tried hard to keep his ears from straining to hear his own name cross those cherished lips. And so hearing on occasion, to not read more into the phrase than simple unconscious recognition.

On nights most bitter and most sweet, John woke. A kaleidoscope of emotions: surprise, hazy confusion, concern, relief, calm. This occurred just often enough to send the detective's heart beating fast when he heard a deeply intaken breath. This could signal waking. Seeing John's eyes open brought answering warmth to Sherlock's chest. Even, delight. But the goal was for the man to rest. This outcome was to be avoided. Yet the insatiable pull the lethargic soldier's sleep-loose body held over Sherlock's own was magnified by the intimacy of the hour. 

It was harder and harder as the weeks wore on not to slip near and enclose that warm heart in his arms. To touch his lips to John's. To sigh into his neck. 

_Patience._

Tonight, John was still. Many colleagues were away for the Yule week. John had signed up for more than his fair share of shifts, opting to take time off later. _For our birthdays_ , Sherlock thought with some satisfaction. He suspected a guilty conscience troubled John. The doctor could still barely grasp that he was planning to leave the practice despite the looming deadline. February would see him free. To write, to care for Watson, to take on more cases. To, perhaps, enjoy his days. 

Sherlock ghosted into the room, efficiently lifting Watson up and away. Three paces saw him enter then leave once more. John's peace was undisturbed. 

"Come Watson," Sherlock said quietly to the fussing child as they went down the stairs together. "I need your help tonight." 

* * *

Sherlock ran through the piece once again, going on memory. He had yet to find the name of the song the Roma musician had taught him, much less an arrangement of it. He considered once again what it would involve to return to Romania. _Some day._

Young Watson was the ideal audience. Uncomplaining with his repetition. In fact, her young mind thrived on repeated cycles of words and games and activities. Soaking up the patterns upon which she would build her sense of the world. Already he thought of a subset of his repertoire as _her_ pieces. Beethoven over Bach so far, and the dramatic, contemporary Beamish had caught her ear. Shrugging off narrow popular agendas for building super intelligence in the child through exposure to western European orthodoxy, he sought instead to follow her inclinations. That type of thinking struck a too familiar chord, one which he rejected with all the passionate heat of the wounded and rebellious child he had once been.

Sherlock worked to find many traditions of the instrument to broaden her young ear. Recordings supplemented his offerings and led the direction for his renewed explorations. Watson seemed to enjoy Arabic maqamat[1], which made Sherlock smile thinking of the pleasure this would have brought to his own teacher. He was now working on gaining an adequate handle on a portion of one of the fundamental South Indian ragas[2]. It seemed to calm the girl from the worst strop.

Watson had acquired a taste for improvisational styles. It suited Sherlock to follow this predilection. He was fast finding that the solid, defined lines of logic he'd clung to for so long were inadequate to the changeable nature of life. Answering to the truth of each moment was a new strength which he sought.

Sherlock closed his eyes in gratitude for this chance to be here. So many points of mischance that could have robbed him of just this moment in the night. One Watson tucked peacefully asleep upstairs, while the other kept Sherlock company in his nightly vigil. Snow blanketed round the Baker Street flats. Waiting for the morning to dawn on a day that would bring change and perhaps..something new to all their lives. 

Sherlock dared not think the word love. For fear it would cost too much in the saying.

Every sign pointed to him correctly understanding John's feelings now. It had been a month since he had the flash that stilled him, quivering with the effort to not throw himself into the other man's arms. _He..feels for me._ A deduction unlocked by a certain look in his flatmate's eyes. When John handed Watson over for a very unromantic nappy change. It was complete trust. Complete contentment.

There had always been something else behind John Watson's eyes. A fear or a longing. A searching for something that seemed near and yet far. For the first year of their friendship, it had been the goal of Sherlock's quiet musings to find ways to provoke the look of enrapture that he saw in John when they were fast in pursuit of a perpetrator. Or when the deductions brought them round to the ineluctable truth. _Piss poor job of it I did._ Scraping a raw nerve was so much more likely then. When John's very self was shattered and worn from wounds of battle. And his spirit was still seeking firm ground on which to stand. _He found it here. And then I took it from him._

Sherlock remembered Mrs Hudson's words again and took comfort in them. She believed it must be true. That his feelings would be returned. Sherlock had thought so many times of how to tell John. How to broach the topic that was submerged in their friendship. Buried in the blood and broken remains of lives both of them had shed in the making of a new, simpler, yet far richer life. They were joined through the child they both adored. And so close to acknowledging the full dimensions of the care and affection they held for one another. 

How to express all that? He had pondered what to say. Nothing served. 

Sherlock had decided that what he could do was to speak through his violin. To share with John the transcendence he had felt in Romania. Longing for him. Encompassed in a taste of home when he was so lost. The music surely could say what he could not. 

Plus, it had fit his curricula for Watson's exposure to world traditions to a veritable 'T.' And though he only played on nights when Watson woke, it was time that they two so often shared alone in the world. The music could be wholly new to John. 

He began to play the piece again. This would be the last run through before he played it for John. Watson's eyes were drooping. Soon he would return her upstairs and Sherlock himself would retire. The flat would return to the sweet embrace of a full, loving silence. 

Watson sighed. Sherlock nodded. He was ready. 

* * *

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

It was New Year's Eve. John was returning from the shops bearing the toilet roll and milk he'd practically been shoved out into the snow to retrieve. Luckily he had found one place still open. Still time to go before midnight.

He stomped a bit going up the stairs, wanting his housemate to know his ego was still smarting from the tongue lashing he'd been given by Sherlock for apparently using up the last of both household items. John was sure he'd done nothing of the sort. But in the interests of keeping their voices low and his child sleeping, and in the face of one of the very worst strops John had seen his flatmate in since he'd returned home from perdition, John had bowed to necessity. He made the trip out into the cold.

Being out walking had oddly cheered him. He looked up at the light of the moon and smiled to feel the sharp bite of the wind. He was out on this dark night, but even for such an unwanted trip as this, he couldn't stay angry long. Not when he had his child and family (y _es, I can say it)_ to return to. To be able to look forward even to the strops of his genius, beloved ( _again, I can say this in my own mind, I'll soon say it to him out loud, so I must begin becoming comfortable saying it at least to myself_ ) friend. And to look forward to settling their minor differences. He finally had a day off tomorrow, he was determined to enjoy this time. And they had made such progress together, he couldn't fear that a moment's gruffness could destabilize what had come to feel solid and real and steady. The beat of their days together. And their nights.

He knew Sherlock would regret it when young Watson grew older and his late night stints were no longer necessary. He saw a shift in his friend. Nights had often been a time when Sherlock battled his darkest fears and strongest foes. John regretted that he could only follow so far. His own bodily needs, transport or otherwise, could not be denied. Despite his training as a soldier and a doctor, John skipped sleep begrudgingly, and when there was no other choice. But Sherlock seemed only to fall when he could hold off sleep no more. And then happily go without for days in the delight of a challenging case.

But with Rosie there, nights were different for Sherlock. John thought he found a purpose in it. On nights when John woke and joined them, he noticed a fullness that though mundane was somehow more substantial than the adrenaline-laced intensity of days past. Something different fed his detective's hungers now. Gentler. But to John it seemed as engrossing of Sherlock's attention. He had become a bottomless well of curiosity and care.

Despite the lost sleep, and his own grumpiness when it happened, John treasured the times he did share in that midnight circle with Rosie and Sherlock. He wasn't quite sure he was welcome, truly, but his heart drank deep those nights even if his body complained. 

John had stepped back into the warmth of 221B, now, and he found the flat transformed. All the lights but one near the hearth and one near the couch were off. By John's chair two glasses of whiskey stood with a plate of elegant lacy biscuits beside. On the table near the couch was a bottle of champagne on ice that looked far too expensive even at this distance. Next to the champagne were a pair of short wide beakers, each with a lit candle flickering within their depths. 

"Rosie is with Mrs Hudson. Happy New Year, John." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Arabic Maquamat - an improvisational style of composition working from the basis of a series of scales or maqam. Further discussion can be found here: <http://www.salonjoussour.com/index.php/the-maqam> [return to text]
> 
> 2South Indian Raga - A raga is a system of musical performance and composition that is used to build a melody intended to create a particular emotional mood. Each raga is organized around a group of notes or scale. There are 72 central ragas part of the South Indian or Carnatic musical tradition. Further discussion can be found here: <https://www.darbar.org/article/what-is-raag-or-raga-more-than-a-tune-more-than-melody/38>. And see this fascinating article about research on the relationship between ragas and emotions: <https://www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2015.00513/full> [return to text]


	8. Set it Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to share his feelings with John. How else but through music? John has other ideas.
> 
> CW: John has a brief panic attack at the start of the chapter. Skip down to "After an interlude of silent sunny looks, Sherlock dropped his hand then John dropped his" to avoid it.

John was sorely tempted to chuck a bog roll at Sherlock's head. 

"I take it these were not needed then?" He indicated the bag still in his hands. His hands gripped around it, his jacket still on. The change in the lighting had drawn him inside before he had even shucked his outerwear. A track of snow lay on the ground beside him, melting swiftly in the warm, cozy glow of the fire. 

Sherlock moved closer to his flatmate. His shoulders tensed. He'd been expecting something else. He nodded. "A ruse. I apologize." He made to lift the bag out of John' hands, but it was moved out of his reach. 

"I can get it." John's eyes darted to the detective, to the candles and champagne, to the ruby dark whiskey and fire crackling beyond. The violin at hand. "I just need a moment." His breaths quickened. He stepped into the kitchen. Put the bag down and gazed blankly at the counter before him. He snapped back to awareness and put the milk into the fridge. Its twin stared out innocently. 

_What am I doing?_ John closed his eyes and took stock. His breathing was accelerated. His hands were clenched. His body felt tense. His mind was blank. _What am I feeling?_ He counted backwards from 20 and then ran through questions he and his therapist had worked out. 

Am I safe? _Yes, absolutely._

Is everyone I love safe? _Completely. As far as I know, yes, of course. Rosie is fine. Mrs. Hudson is fine. Sherlock.._

What is happening right now? _My..the man I'm in love with ambushed me with a romantic surprise._

John opened his eyes and inhaled deeply, shakily. _You're panicking Watson because all of your dreams might be just about to come true, and you cannot handle it one little bit._

All week he'd been dreaming about Sherlock's birthday. Thinking out how it would go, what he would do, what he would say. Imagining the first moment he touched Sherlock's hand with intent. Imagining what it might feel like to have his arms around the man and know he didn't have to let go. Seeing those eyes closer than ever before. Feeling his breath warm in the darkness. Feeling the skin of their chests meet for the first time. Tasting the salt of him. 

All fantasies. Just like the dreams he'd been forcing himself not to have for years now. All the wisp of smoke from a gun, a snowflake in the sun, a lost breath. Nothing he could touch or hold or feel.

This. This was real. And he was losing his shite. 

"John?" Sherlock hovered at the doorway to the kitchen. His voice was as uncertain as John could remember hearing it. An unfamiliar note. "Are you all right? I can...I can put the lights up. I can call Mrs. Hudson if you'd rather."

A word was dredged from John. "No." He shook his head and turned to face his friend. He was still racing to catch up with himself, but he knew he'd regret losing this ground if he retreated. "No, Sherlock. It's perfect. It's beautiful." John took a step closer to him. Near enough now to touch, he reached out and ran a soft finger down the edge of Sherlock's arm. He whispered, "It's perfect. I'm sorry." 

Sherlock closed his eyes as brutal weight sloughed off his back. His arm hung still, but on reopening, the light in his eyes caressed. A small smile warmed his mouth. He shook his head gently, gesturing towards the living room.

John left his hand where it had landed, unwilling to lose the contact. He grasped Sherlock's wrist. Tried to find words. Before he was able, Sherlock put his other hand on John's and squeezed lightly. Unbearable pressure melted away from John.

_It's all right. It's all alright._

After an interlude of silent sunny looks, Sherlock dropped his hand then John dropped his. They walked together to the chairs by the fire. Sherlock stood until John took his seat, then the taller man leaned over to pick up his whiskey. He trailed his free hand up over John's shoulder, pausing to stroke silver blonde hair lightly. John inhaled a calm, deep breath and gazed up at his friend. They maintained eye contact as Sherlock drank a sip of the dark liquid, his hand lingering. Then Sherlock broke the touch and sat down in his chair. 

John felt limp and easy. He had no idea what was to come, but the fear and anger that had gripped him was gone. Left in its wake a curious openness. A blank slate, awaiting. He lifted his glass and raised it to toast. 

Sherlock mirrored the gesture and spoke. He said, "To something new."

They drank. The liquid burn across John's lips and down his throat woke his senses. Sherlock's eyes never left him. The light depths were entranced and languorous.

With a slight narrowing of the eyes and minute raise of an eyebrow, Sherlock inquired if John was faring better now. A nod from John in response released the tension and the detective's fond, satisfied look returned. 

_How can someone so irritating be so incredibly charming?_ John thought, reveling in the simple attention. His nose caught a delicious scent. He looked down at the plate by the chair.

"What are these?" 

"Pizelles. I've noted that you enjoy the taste of _Glycyrrhiza glabra_ , licorice. As in many things, John, you are drawn to that which may harm you. These are flavored with anise."

"Licorice is dangerous, now?

"Recent research indicates that too high amounts can cause weakness, high blood pressure. Paralysis." 

John makes a mental note to look up the clinical studies, and mind never to feed any to Rosie. "But anise is less harmful?"

"Yes." 

"And the lesson is?"

"Sometimes we can get what we want and need in a way that doesn't have to risk our own safety." 

John's eyes opened wide and he snorted. "Sherlock. Wait, what? I'm the one who needs to hear that?

Sherlock bit his lip ruefully, quite distracting John. "I suppose you're correct." 

Licking his lips, John tore his eyes from the detective's full, tantalizing mouth. He concentrated and shook his head. "We both could stand to take it in. I'll try to stop being an arse now."

Humor lit Sherlock's eye. He put on a standoffish air. "About time, John." Rolled his eyes. "Could have done that a few years ago and saved us all some trouble."

John looked askance and picked up one of the biscuits. "What and leave you to be a wanker all on your own? Wouldn't dream of abandoning a mate like that. Mmm..." The first bite was heavenly. The complex pungent flavor at odds with the delicate graceful appearance of the treat. John nodded appreciatively. "The taste works better with the whiskey than I'd have guessed." 

"Of course it does." Sherlock watched John eat. 

"You're not making me finish all of these alone are you?" John polished off his biscuit, absently licking powdered sugar off his fingers. Looking up he intercepted a dark focused look on the detective's face. 

John tried to speak lightly and flirtatiously, but fell somewhat short. His voice quavered. "You look hungry. Here." He picked up another and leaned forward in the chair to offer it to Sherlock. He held it high, nearer face than hand. Sherlock transferred his attention, hesitated, then leant forward to take a bite. The warmth of his breath skimmed across the back of John's hand. The crunch of the biscuit mirrored a pop in the fireplace and the sudden surge in John's heart rate.

Sherlock hummed appreciatively. "Mrs Hudson outdid herself." He made no move to relieve John of the biscuit. Took another bite. A fine pink tongue peeked out to lick sugar from his lips. 

"Hudders has Rosie. So she was in on this, huh?" John spoke hazily, preoccupied. "Did she tell you--" Sherlock took the last of the biscuit with his teeth gently from John's hand. Calloused fingers darted out, clasping John's wrist. John lost all sense of what his next word would have been as Sherlock's tongue licked sugar from John's thumb and forefinger. John forgot how to breath as the sensitive pad of his middle finger was briefly engulfed by Sherlock's glossy lips and massaged by his tongue. 

Then his hand was free and he gasped for air, falling back against his seat, mind reeling. 

Sherlock hooded his eyes in a curiously feline gesture of satisfaction. "What did she tell me, John?" he rumbled. 

"Dear God," was all John could say.

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin. He glanced to the clock and neatly flipped his phone out of a pocket. Flicking the screen several times he typed furiously and then manipulated the buttons on the side. John watched befuddled, feeling his breath and heartbeat return to normal once more. Sherlock placed the phone on the mantle place, facing outwards. An image of Big Ben came into view and John heard the too cheery voices of commentators float over popular music and the murmur of crowds. 

_Oh right, it's New Year's Eve._

They spent some time preparing to open up the bottle of champagne. Sherlock gave that task over to John citing his military experience. "They didn't issue me a saber, Sherlock." "But you can do it?" "Well, yes." Sherlock rustled up an appropriate blade. "Do not tell me where you had that hidden, Sherlock." "I won't then."

Affectionate glances. A brush of the arm. A warm solid side leaned into another. At five minutes to midnight they sat close on the couch. John's face was flushed from the heat he felt at the steady contact he was enjoying from hip to ankle with the detective. He soldiered on through his anecdote of the many spectacularly failed, then finally successful attempts at learning to properly behead a champagne bottle after a Rugby league match. "Learned at University, I'll have you know." "There's always something." 

They listened to the count down, complaining quietly together about how absurd all the holiday shenanigans were. "It's an arbitrary moment, illogical to make so much fuss." "Yes, and it bugs me how everyone's clock is different, so how could that one moment matter when it's not the same, even?" And then the count reached single digits and both fell silent, leaning even closer together.

John looked out of the corner of his eye, fascinated and unable to look away from Sherlock's mouth. His tunnel vision making him miss entirely how Sherlock's eyes were blatantly fastened upon his lips in return. 

7-6

"John?" Sherlock whispered. 

5-4

John licked his lips and his eyes met Sherlock's. "Yes?"

3-2   
"May I?" His face drifted closer.

1!!! 

"Yes. Please, god yes." 

Auld lang syne flooded the airways. The song drifted out on the roadway, stuttering in and out of sync as they heard it from kitchen windows and car radios driving past. The sound of cheering and fireworks exploded in the distance. John and Sherlock shifted their bodies to fit together. Awkwardly trying to jostle spaces carefully misaligned for so long, to come into contact and merge. Geometries of emotion embattled with long practiced distance, and fear. 

John placed his hand under Sherlock's arm, between back and couch. Sherlock touched John's neck, his fingers fluttering down then clutching. John rested his other hand lightly on Sherlock's cheek. Thumb stroking chin as John clung to Sherlock's gaze. The detective's free hand came to rest on John's chest. Faces grew nearer, jaws relaxed and lips opened. John closed his eyes, homing to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's eyes remained open. Taking in each singular shade, each glimmering hair, each vulnerable line. Only closing when their lips touched. His fingers rose and gripped John's shirt, pulling him closer. His lips applied more pressure, then opened. Welcoming the traveler home at last. 

* * *

John felt that disrupted, surreal feeling he'd often get with a first kiss. The bare physicality of it strange. The dull thud of matter. He often found some stray detail would derail his mind. Maybe an odd smell of soured milk, a too wet mouth or uncomfortably dry tongue. All too often his emotions bounced off at this point. When the lovely hypotheticals of enjoying a person's company turned into the truth of offering and asking such closeness from someone he, well, liked just fine. Or thought was a right looker. But so far from touching his heart that they might as well be exchanging fluids by spitting in their hands. So many times he'd had the realization that the core of him was already conquered. Sherlock's possessive occupation of 221B stretching far beyond. Into John's thoughts, his daily life, his admirations and affections. Even his dreams. And most certainly, all encompassing, into his heart. And now, his arms. 

His focus sharpened. Mind, heart and senses aligned.

It was simple, really. There was never anyone, Rosie aside, who could compete with what he felt for Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, Only One in the World. Only one in John Watson's heart. His only.

* * *

Sherlock was rarely surprised. An exception was the depths of the bonds he felt for those he truly loved. Those things his mind did not anticipate. Thankfully, his heart was open wide enough for him to accept it when it found him. His challenge was to acknowledge the feelings. His defenses closed tight and he fell back again and again into denial and rebuff of the reaching arms of others. Few were those who broke through. Chief among them, John and Rosie Watson. 

John Watson had slipped through his armor from the first. And Sherlock had given himself wholly to the man, no coming back. No regrets, and also no hope of ever having these feelings returned in full. No hope of the miracle now in his arms. Sherlock had lived without hope for so long. What was one more silent hunger? 

Tonight he learned that love could taste of whiskey and champagne and anise. And a flavor wholly, uniquely of John. One which nourished. He could feed that void. Where hope had failed, trust delivered. Saved. 

* * *

After the kiss, John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Nuzzling an ear he ghosted his lips across Sherlock's neck and delighted in the shiver that went through the man he held. "Thank you for this surprise." Sherlock's arms tightened in response. 

"I have something else planned." The detective started pulling away from John, who resisted, pressing closer as his friend tried to disengage. 

"I'm not sure I'm ready to move on yet." John captured Sherlock's lips again with his and gave a long leisurely wordless argument against whatever it was Sherlock was about to do. The detective's body found this argument quite convincing, and he pulled John close once more. He gave a guttural sigh as John's hand threaded into dark curls. Sherlock devoured, his tongue invading and enticing in turn.

At a breath, John held Sherlock close, leaning their foreheads together. He groaned low, "How have I kept from touching you?"

A shy, delighted look came into Sherlock's eyes. "I thought I was the only one."

John closed his eyes, shaking his head in regret and shame. "So much time wasted." He felt Sherlock's finger on his lips. Capturing it and biting gently, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock's eyelids lower full and sated. John ran his mouth down the line of the index finger and planted a kiss on the center of his detective's palm. He felt Sherlock's limbs melt against his own. 

"John, no moment with you has ever been wasted." 

Sherlock squeezed John gently at every point of contact then determinedly disengaged, laying a firm, chaste kiss to John's lips. John finally acceded and settled himself to see what came next. He lifted one of the champagne flutes and sipped at the sweet liquid. The fizz felt alive. His pulse blazed. 

Sherlock came back into sight holding his violin. He stood near the fire and placed the instrument on his chair. He tightened the bow. "I've wanted to share this with you for a long time. It's a piece I learned while I was traveling."

John's eyes narrowed. "When you were dead, you mean. When I thought you were dead." 

Sherlock's head snapped around and he met John's eyes. "Yes. It meant so much to me. I-I felt you with me when I heard it and I wanted to share that with you." 

The frost in John receded. But he closed his eyes, his head pulling back, neck muscles tensing and his shoulders rounded as if to protect him from a blow. When he opened them again, he shook his head. "Please. No." 

"What? John?"

John stood, clunking the glass down. He shook his head again and stumbled around the square table. Sherlock came to meet him. John's hands grasped the musician's upper arms. His eyes beseeching. His voice strangely dry and hoarse. 

"No more. I can't puzzle things out between us. I can't listen to you play and wonder what you mean. I have so much to tell you, and I want to know what you're thinking, Sherlock. We've let so much silence get between us and steal time we could have had. I can't do it anymore." He shook Sherlock slightly. "You're a wonder, but I need to hear you say what you mean. Please, set that down and just you be here. With me." 

Sherlock nodded, his eyes haunted. John saw, and went on. 

"Plus, you know I'm too dense to deduce it all. Please, humor this idiot and talk to me." 

Sherlock enfolded his beloved friend in his arms and sighed deeply. He turned, still holding John, and laid down the bow next to his violin. He chuckled.

"Not quite as much an idiot as everyone else in this world." 

"High praise." John nestled deeper in his arms.

Sherlock kissed John's forehead. "The very highest." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not finished yet. (!) Next, they do indeed talk.


	9. Something New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the violin couldn't say.
> 
> (Some sexual content in this one. Check out the new tags.)

Deep night had settled in at Baker Street. A wind teased the drifts of snow along sidewalk and rooftop. The moon was canting low, casting long dark shadows across the quiet streets. Rosie was nestled in down at 221A. She stirred briefly. A small hand stretched out, mouth smacking in contentment. After a slight huff of air out from her tiny lungs, she was tranquil again. Mrs Hudson, sitting in a comfortable over-stuffed chair next to the portable crib, looked up from her book and smiled at the child. Her thoughts went to her tenants above and a more wicked grin lit her face. _Enjoy yourself, boys._

Up in 221B, Sherlock and John had settled back on the couch together. The rest of the anisette-flavoured biscuits had migrated near. Glasses were refilled with champagne. They sat close. Sherlock's left hand was linked with John's right. John's face was flushed. His lips were reddened and glistening still. The detective was fighting to maintain a calm, relaxed air. But he couldn't subdue the smile in his eyes and it kept breaking free across his mouth as well. A warm feeling was lodged in his chest.

His thoughts were hijacked by visceral impressions of touching John. Silver gold threads cool against his fingertips, then feathered between his fingers as he'd pulled John's face close for yet another New Year's kiss. The warmth of John's arm around him, and the beat of that beloved heart beneath his palm. John's lips... With an effort he dragged his attention back to what the doctor was saying. 

"It's bloody expensive, we're not letting that go flat." John was going on about the champagne for some reason. _As if that mattered in the slightest._

"It was just to celebrate the moment, John, no need for us to get soused out of pecuniary guilt." Sherlock was happy to keep drinking, they had no where to go. But John seemed to be in high spirits and spoiling for some kind of battle, so he was pleased to oblige him. 

"Speak for yourself, Mister I-went-to-Oxbridge posh boy. You bought it for me. Put up with me enjoying it." John's eyes sparked in a dangerous way as he took another sip. Sherlock had seen this look in John's eyes many times as they struggled and fought over how to proceed with an investigation, or argued over proper decorum at the Met or sanitary conditions in the kitchen. And the detective had seen something like this between John and a few of the women he'd brought home with him. Sarah, particularly brought out this boyish, teasing side of the ex-soldier. Deductions slid automatically through Sherlock's thoughts. _Coping mechanism from childhood, bonding in the military, keeps his dates at arms length while allowing him to prove that he can't be taken for granted despite his non-intimidating appearance and kindly demeanor. Flirtatious behaviour. Oh yes._

"If I must." Sherlock's eyes carried their own mischievous glimmer. 

"Yes, you bloody well must. Now you were going to tell me when you realized you were in love with me, right?"

Sherlock blushed in surprise, and pleasure. His thoughts spun but gained no traction. Feeling the need for some space, he eyed the bottle narrowly and glanced back at John, assessing. "Exactly how much have you had?"

The man scoffed then squeezed Sherlock's hand where it lay entangled with his fingers. "I've had plenty. But I'm fine." 

"This isn't going to be like after your wedding again is it?"

"I was not drunk. I was pleasantly buzzed." 

"That's why you fell into the cake then?" 

John turned to face Sherlock, folding his right leg up on the couch between them. Sherlock was pleased to see that he did not drop his hand. "Okay, I think we need some ground rules here. No deflecting by talking about past relationships."

"That goes both ways then."

"Wait, you've had past relationships?" 

"Well. Yes. I wasn't born that day in the lab when we met, you do realize?" 

John rolled his eyes. "Also no distracting me with insults." 

Sherlock considered how to respond, then decided on honesty. "I was more going for a nostalgic recall, actually."

"Ah. Ahem." John leaned in for a kiss, his eyes softening with affection. Still finding their way with one another, their noses touched. A wordless negotiation ended with tilted heads and John's warm mouth partaking of Sherlock's. The detective savored the softness, then nibbled at the corner of John's lips. His tongue sought entrance and was happily welcomed, with a sigh of pleasure. Sherlock felt John's arms encircle his neck and he surrendered to the moment. All thoughts and worries swept away by a wash of affection and desire. 

"Sherlock.." John's voice was breathy and low. The detective answered, muttering the man's name repeatedly as he scattered tender kisses across John's mouth, his cheek, temple. Whisper soft he set his lips to each eyelid. Then Sherlock slid lower in John's hold to lavish a line of burning kisses down his neck. 

"Oh God, Sherlock." John's own desire was evident. He shifted, increasing the contact between them. His eyes opening wide in appreciation as he found Sherlock in a similar state. Their kisses became more urgent and Sherlock maneuvered John's body to lay back against the arm of the couch. He tugged impatiently at the burgundy jumper John was wearing. He looked a question and John struggled to rid himself of the garment. 

Once it was gone, Sherlock bent to unbutton the sky blue shirt that had been revealed. It was one of Sherlock's favorites, the color matching John's eye color nicely. Then he realized what he was assuming and looked up at him. "Is this alright?" Those blue eyes were dark and intent. Irises large, face laden with heat.

"Oh, yes. Please." John's hands went to the buttons to help, but Sherlock swatted them away playfully. 

"I've waited so long to do this."

Rising to straddle John's lap, Sherlock opened the shirt. He took his time to appreciate the chest revealed beneath. Ghosting across as John watched through lowered eyelashes. The cratered scar, a constellation of pain. Sherlock's fingers read a passage of the life that had brought this man into his arms. He dipped his head to trace the line of John's clavicle with his tongue and lips. John gasped, his hands coming around Sherlock, roaming across his back. Sherlock moved his hips close and reveled in the whimpers he elicited. The contact between them was a glorious tease. Relieving some of the tense ardor consuming the dark haired man, even as the slow movements inflamed him further. His already snug trousers grew tighter. 

"John, I want.." 

"Anything," John gasped. 

Pulling the blonde man roughly against him, Sherlock ruthlessly plundered his mouth. He felt John's hands rove across his arse and was encouraged to do as his urges led. He moved off John's lap, scooching back along the couch and landing between John's legs. A guttural sound from John--expressing his disapproval at the increased distance between them--was cut off abruptly as Sherlock laid his hand on the buckle of John's belt. 

"Oh."

Sherlock looked up again, "Is this all right?"

The raw lust in John's eyes made a verbal response unnecessary. But the detective found himself pinking with gratification at John's harshly breathed, "Brilliant," nonetheless. 

* * *

Some time later found John clutching the leg of the couch with one hand and clenching a fistful of Sherlock's night black curls with the other. His litany of ecstasy and appreciation rose in volume as Sherlock brought him closer to release. Hating the necessity, Sherlock eased his tempo and shifted his hand to apply attentive pressure where his mouth had just been. 

"John," he said quietly, "I've no objection to your pleasurable exclamations, but you may wish to monitor your volume. Mrs Hudson is sure to be awake until we retrieve Watson." 

John struggled to come back from the grip of the hormones flooding his system. "So you didn't ask Mrs Hudson to take her for the whole night then?"

"I didn't want to presume, John." A shy look, extremely at odds with his physical state and the intimacy of their embrace, came over John's face. Sherlock made a connection. "Wait, but you did. For my birthday?" 

A nod. 

Sherlock brought his face close to John's. "Very confident weren't we?" His hand moved, beginning long slow strokes. 

John gasped and half-collapsed on Sherlock's chest. "Ahh-- I guess, I was thinking of it more as hopeful." He gulped a breath and Sherlock changed his grip, "Positive thinking..."

"Well, I suppose I'm also very positive about that idea. Perhaps we can still take her up on it?" He did not relent. 

John breathed out with some effort, "Yes. Please." He straightened in the detective's hold and asked a thready question. "Tonight?" 

Sherlock kissed him, breaking off his attentions. He raised a hand to caress John's face. "I'm afraid she's got plans for tomorrow with her sister. She was happy for us to steal Watson away when were finished. But we do need to go tonight." 

A wistful air stole over John's face. 

"Besides," Sherlock said. "You miss her."

John nodded. "I always do." He looked into Sherlock's eyes again. "But for now..."

Sherlock leaned in to nip John's ear lobe lightly. He spoke quietly into John's ear. "You're sure?" His hand resumed its attentions. "We can stop any time you'd like?"

John shuddered, "You are merciless." Then he pulled his friend into a fierce kiss. "Don't you dare stop."

Sherlock chuckled, secretly relieved. "Now where was I?" 

"About to fulfill a variant of one of my oldest fantasies about you, I think." John sighed happily as the detective moved back to his prior position. 

Sherlock looked up and caught John's eye. "You and me both."

* * *

"So, John. You, as I recall, had wanted us to talk, this evening?" Sherlock played lazily with John's hair. His beloved friend's face was buried in his chest. Clothing sorted, they now lay with bodies fully entangled across Sherlock's side of the couch. John's blistering climax had surprised them both with its volume and emotional impact. Sherlock blinked away the remnants of tears as he held John's finally calmed body in his arms. 

With effort, John shifted his face to allow space to speak. "Bastard."

"Now, now, John. No deflection with insults was your rule." 

"I can't think straight, much less talk after that."

Sherlock smirked, "Well, I don't think anyone would ask you to do anything straight, after that."

John lifted his head just enough to give Sherlock a look. "My gorgeous bastard." He flopped down heavily again and nestled in closer. "You talk," came through, a bit muffled.

"What about, John?" He was answered by a shrug.

Sherlock thought. _What haven't I said?_ _Scratch that. What have I told him?_

"I don't remember anything about what led to it. The first time I overdosed. I woke up in hospital. My mother was there." 

John nodded into Sherlock's chest. Then he jostled to a position where he could see, as he realized the gravity of what was being shared. Sherlock stared towards the Christmas tree they'd not had the heart yet to take down. Lights twinkling reflected in the window's glass. 

"How awful." 

Sherlock surfaced from memory to smile wryly into John's eyes. "You have no idea." 

"Violet let you have it then?" 

Sherlock shuddered. "The worst of it was in what she didn't say. How she looked at me." John ran his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand. He remembered the track marks lining the inner skin of Sherlock's arms. The places he'd looked away from so many times when he'd cared for his friend. A no man's land they'd both avoided. He'd left him there alone. 

John released Sherlock's hand. He crept his up Sherlock's forearm. "Show me." 

They sat up together. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves. John touched the scars. His lover's fingers gentle, as Sherlock had been with his chest. The left arm was more liberally dotted. Each blemish another ground zero in Sherlock's struggles. John leaned over and pressed his lips to the tender skin. His kiss a promise. 

They settled down together again. Each quietly circling their own thoughts. Sherlock continued. 

"It was..I was with Victor when I started."

"Victor?" 

"You asked about past relationships." Sherlock watched John make the connections, and accepted the fury filled gaze John threw at him with no fear. 

"This Victor," John bit out. "Whereabouts might I find him?" 

"On the board of several banks and one hospital, I believe." John exhaled sharply. "He also had a wealthy family to bail him out. 

"You warn me if we see him, then." Sherlock felt a heady rush at the novel feeling of being able to accept John's jealousy. 

"Sounds like I may need to give him the head's up if we do." 

"Just let me get one punch in, Sherlock." 

"My protective John." He felt John's arms contract around him. 

"Yes." The anger in his eyes diminished. The love grew. "Your John," he said faintly. 

Sherlock firmly believed himself no romantic. All evidence of the evening, his own behaviour over the past years since meeting John, and the tremble his limbs gave in this moment of hearing John utter those words--all this to the contrary. But even he could no more leave that mouth unkissed than he could deny Rosie when she asked to be picked up, or leave evidence for some cretin to trample and destroy. 

* * *

Half an hour later, John and Sherlock tiptoed down the stairs. Cheeks and lips pink and bruised. Hair half-tamed on both, but neither cared. They took a moment at the top of the stair to take a final taste. John could not resist worshiping Sherlock's neck a little more. "John, that's how we got side tracked last time we decided to go get her."

"It is not my fault. Your neckline is criminal." 

"I can't say I mind at all, but Watson--" The detective tightened hands where they lay on John's shoulder and arse cheek despite his words as John dipped below the neckline and undid an additional button. Sherlock groaned as John wedded hip to groin, and John's mouth enveloped his newly exposed nipple. "John, this is torture."

John lifted his mouth momentarily to say, "I must be doing it wrong then, let's try again," and resumed. His hands roamed over Sherlock's back side. 

"Not. I mean we have to stop, and it's bloody torture knowing this has to end. Oh God, John!"

After a nip to the bud of the nipple that had the detective gasping for breath and biting his lip to keep quiet, John's mouth gentled. His grip grew less desperate. He released Sherlock and almost bashfully rebuttoned his shirt to a modest extent. "I'm sorry. I got carried away. It's just." John brought the tip of his tongue to his lips and bit it gently. "It's been a torment not being able to touch you." 

Sherlock grasped both of John's wrists tightly and pulled them to his chest. "You can now. You can do anything you'd like." 

John leaned into the hold and kissed Sherlock tenderly. "I know, love. And I cannot wait. But I know it's not for tonight." 

Sherlock swayed slightly. He'd said it more than once since that moment earlier, but it was still a spare handful of times that he'd heard John call him 'love.' He didn't anticipate being calm about it any time in the near future. His bruised heart glanced away from imagining himself saying the word. But something in him warmed at the suggestion of it on the horizon.

"Soon," Sherlock said, gathering his quivering insides into some semblance of dignity. 

"Yes, soon."

* * *

Watson was sleepily pleased to be brought back upstairs by her Dada. They thanked an extremely smug looking Mrs Hudson for her care and toasted the New Year with her. They suffered through the implicit 'I told you so' laughing on her lips as she saluted their little family, along with "better sound insulation for the flats" in the coming year. John left pleased but flushed with embarrassment, clutching his daughter like a shield to his chest. Sherlock exchanged winks with Mrs Hudson, then tried to shake off the feeling of unreality as he climbed the stairs in the wake of the Watsons. _Real. This is all real._

Waking by the time they returned to 221B, Watson was hungry for milk and attention. The child burbled and chattered happily to the two adoring men from her seat on John's lap by the fire. 

"This isn't the right time to be chatty, little bee. Don't grow up to be like your Uncle Sherlock," the detective chided the girl with a voice full of affection. He rose to warm a bottle for her. 

John watched Sherlock move about the flat, a smile on his face. "Uncle. That's nice. Isn't it, Rosie?" he said conversationally to his daughter. 

Sherlock glanced over to them. Joy trembled in his eyes, in check. "I'm not overly presuming, am I?" 

"No, love. Course not. Quite the reverse." 

Sherlock gave a curt nod and moved on to his task, most assuredly not holding back tears. He was fine again by the time he came back to the pair and offered the bottle with a friendly dispassionate air. John eyed him thoughtfully.

"You wanted to play something tonight. I'm sorry I scuppered your plans," the doctor said, helping his daughter get a good grip on the bottle. 

"Not complaining," said Sherlock. He sat down on his chair. 

"Tell me what it was again? I'm afraid I was a bit too desperate to know some other things at the time for me to take it in." 

Sherlock straightened his legs and slid down in his chair. He steepled his hands. 

John said, "I take it she has heard it already?" indicating Rosie. This provoked a smile out of Sherlock. 

"Of course." 

"What am I missing out on, little one?" John asked his daughter. She reached out to touch her father's nose. He steadied the bottle for her.

Sherlock spoke. "The first case we had together, John. It was exhilarating." They exchanged intimate smiles. "There have been too many since that left you broken and bruised."

"And you, Sherlock." 

The detective gestured dismissively, but John's loving, stern head shake gave him pause. "Alright. I grant that." A raised eyebrow from John. "And some. Both of us have suffered. But why then do we keep coming back?" 

John shook his head lightly, listening. 

Sherlock leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. "The feeling of my feet on the pavement, with the criminal unmasked. Your footsteps right behind--"

"Or ahead, once or twice," John broke in. 

Sherlock smiled, not looking. "Of course. More than that. Wherever you are, the knowing that we've found the solution. We've cracked the code on some small part of the greater evil in the world. And even more than that, John." He opened his eyes and gazed at his friend. "I've done this for longer than I've known you. And alone at times even then." He shook away the wisps of pain. Old frost stood to melt in the light of a new day. "But the joy I've experienced in sharing it with you. And now, having Watson be part of that world we're defending." His eyes slipped closed in a mixture of feelings both painful and sweet. Then he sat up straight in the chair and looked fondly over at the two of them, and continued, "I'd no idea about her at the time, when first I heard the song I wished to play for you tonight. As I said earlier, it touched me. There were two violinists and their rapport reminded me of ours." He made a gesture connecting the two of them. "It was transcendent." One shoulder shrugged. "It wouldn't be the same, but still I wanted to bring you there somehow."

"Beautiful. I'd love that someday," John said. Sherlock could see that John's eyes were full of feeling, but the sentiment in his own left him unable to deduce them. 

"Watson approved."

"I'm sure she did."

They sat in quiet together. Rosie finished her bottle. John set it aside. She waved her hands and cast her head about, beginning to fuss. 

"May I?" Sherlock gestured to the violin case, still sitting by. John nodded but his brow wrinkled slightly as he tried to comfort his daughter. 

The instrument retrieved, Sherlock left the bow aside. He plucked quietly at the strings. Rosie's eyes focused on him and her body calmed. John's forehead smoothed out. 

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself. Warmed by the belonging he felt. _These two._

After a few minutes, Rosie's eyes became leaden. Her body grew slack in John's hands. Sherlock continued to play. The child closed her eyes with a sigh. 

John said, "You always call her Watson." 

"Yes?" 

"You rarely even say 'she,' of late. Always, Watson."

Sherlock hesitated, considering. "John, Watson may choose something else than what we see." 

"You mean she might want to be a man?"

"No, I mean Watson may be nonbinary, or transgender, or something else. Or 'she' may be appropriate. It's just not for us to say." 

John blinked. "That's..extremely thoughtful and forward thinking of you." 

"Several of the people in the network have asked me to use particular terms. It gave me pause." 

Now John hesitated. "It's not personal for you, is it?"

A piercing look. "John, what are you asking? You're not getting defensive, are you? You will support whatever feels right for Watson, won't you?"

"Of course! I hadn't considered it prior, but yes. Certainly. No, I'm wondering what it means to you. Is this your way of telling me I should be supporting you in something?"

"What would that be?"

"Well, I have wondered..."

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing. It's," John flushed. "If you wanted to tell me about your sexual orientation, I'm sure you would."

Sherlock leaned towards him. The light of the fire flickered across the nut brown sheen of his instrument. "You can ask, John."

"Well, I did once." John was looking down at his child. 

"Ah. And I put you off." 

"Mm hm." 

"I am sorry. I was uncertain. No, rather I was certain at the time. I was simply wrong." 

John's eyes leapt up to meet Sherlock's. Such an admission was not strictly unprecedented, but was passing rare. John looked bowled over by the words, but seemed to be willing to press his luck. 

"And now?" he said.

Sherlock smiled slightly, his eyes lidding heavy. "Gay. Sexually speaking. I have also been brought into awareness of other types of attraction that helped me better understand myself."

"The network again? Wiggins?" 

"Yes, though not him alone." 

John tucked Rosie up against himself. Unconsciously taking comfort in her warmth. "And?" he said, as Sherlock did not continue. 

Sherlock pulled himself upright and said offhand, glancing away, "I'm as interested to hear this from you, too." 

The comment landed. John said, "Of course. As much as I've presumed to already know your answer, I've spent far too much time misleading you and others with mine." 

Sherlock's eyes crept back to meet John's, who said, "Please. I want to hear from you, but I'm more than happy to disclose. I can go first. Or last. Or whatever you want." 

The detective, unmoving, shed that cloak of disdain he'd donned. The inner aspect of disguise which had served him so long. Both for investigation and in keeping distance from others. Until the virtue of holding the world at arms length imploded, with the appearance of one soldier/doctor in his life. He saw his own shift reflected in John's eyes and reveled in the relief that acknowledging his own vulnerability brought with it. He felt buoyant. He also suddenly felt the feet like miles between himself and John. 

Sherlock moved to kneel next to the doctor, his back to the fire. He put his hand on John's knee and leaned against the chair. John looked startled, but did not object and seemed to settle happily in the new configuration. The hand not stabilizing Rosie caressed Sherlock's hand, then rested on his detective's head, absently stroking his dark hair. 

Sherlock felt relaxed. He spoke, his eyes resting on Rosie then glancing every so often to meet John's. "I felt..drawn to you from the start. I didn't understand at first. It was nothing like with Victor. He pressed me, courted me. Expanded my circle. Then later when it had become a bit too expansive," John snorted, but Sherlock could feel the tension in his fingers,"he abandoned me. I never saw him again after my trip to rehab. He called me once, clearly wasted. Inviting me round for 'sex and blow.'"

"How romantic," John interjected.

"Indeed." Sherlock rubbed his head into John's fingers and was rewarded with renewed attention and even a head scratch, which distracted the detective for several very pleasurable moments. It also seem to please John. His shoulders relaxed and his fingers became loose and gentle again on Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock resumed his narrative. "It didn't matter by that time, of course. I didn't need him to mislead me. That monkey was on my back indefinitely, and travels with me still." Sherlock looking at John saw a question in his face. "What?"

"What was it like, meeting me?"

Sherlock smiled. He unfolded upwards and kissed John, a sweet possession of his lips. Then settled back down again, placing both hands and his chin on John's leg now. He said, shrugging, "Oh, like someone gave me the keys to a place I'd never been before. But it turned out to be my home."

John's hand darted out to grasp one of Sherlock's and squeezed tight. Sherlock looked up to see John nod and say, "Yes. Same. For me." 

Sherlock lifted John's hand to his lips and kissed a stray knuckle. Then settled his chin back down, closing his eyes. 

Silence settled. Broken only by the occasional snap of coals in the fire and the continual mutter of the flame. 

John moved his hand to stroke Sherlock's hair once more, ghosting it down his brow and cheek now and again. Eventually he spoke. 

"What did Wiggins or the gang tell you about?"

Sherlock roused himself and tossed up a lazy smile. "Oh, I was part of a quite in depth, multi-party discussion of the difference between romantic and sexual attraction. And platonic companionship. In addition to a plethora of orientation and gender identity spectrums, most of which I was quite conversant with already." He chuckled. "Truth be told, I believe this talk might have been begun for my--and your--benefit." He rolled his eyes. "A bit of a lecture. Or the usual 'figure it out already' talk we've gotten so many times."

John laughed. "Much good it did us before. Good luck to them. Though perhaps this one stuck?" 

Sherlock said, "One of them talked about being attracted to different qualities of people. For their body, their minds. And I realized what I'd been feeling for certain individuals."

"Moriarty?" 

"Mm. And the Woman."

"Oh?" 

"Yes. She had baffled me. I'd never been tempted by a woman before but she drew me. After considering it in this light, it was quite clear that I was experiencing the challenge, well, sexually. But indirectly." 

"Seduction through that giant brain of yours. Poor Molly never had a chance."

"No indeed. But in the end neither did they." Sherlock shifted now, to lean back against John's chair and his leg equally. His hand came up to encircle John's knee from below. It all felt strangely natural.

He went on, "What they were triggering were things that can feel quite like love. Just as can cocaine."

John spoke, a thoughtful tone in his voice. "You mean that literally don't you? Rather, physiologically?"

"Exactly, John. I think I spoke more truthfully than I intended when I told you I was married to my work." 

"Addicted to dopamine?" Sherlock answered with a nod. John continued, wondering, "So where do I fit in?"

"Where ever you want." John nudged him with his knee, in a companionable way. "Actual compatibility. Partnership. Desire." He smirked at John saying, "Not the imitation." He shifted to his knees again. "All right. I've said my part. Why don't we move somewhere more comfortable for your disclosure now?"

Moving Rosie carefully and deliberately, they re-occupied the couch. She rested between them. Sherlock's arm went up along the couch back, around John.

John spoke to Sherlock, supported by his touch and the circle of trust they were building. He told Sherlock about his childhood. Much of what the detective had deduced was correct. About his sister's struggle to come out. The layers of pain, physical and mental that had sculpted his family and basic experience of the world.

He spoke of his explorations of sexuality and pleasure with girls in his circuit. The tentative flowering of attraction for boys, squelched and hidden despite his staunch defense of his sister. Until reaching the army relaxed those bounds. With his father's death and his reaching the majority age he became an independent agent in the world. Blazed through lovers and gained a moniker to prove his prowess in three corners of the world.

And then all that collapsed with his injury. Along with his prospects, his hope for love or pretty much anything. The independence he thought he'd built was a sham. His life was emptier than before. He admitted the wreck he'd been when he met Sherlock. Not long for the world and not arsed to care. All changed by an introduction, a deduction, an invitation and the crack of a gun.

"I realized that night I was attracted to you. The following months were agonizing, realizing how much more I wanted but thinking the line had been drawn."

"Hence the cavalcade of ladies." 

"Yep." John said, popping the 'p.' "Much good it did me. Between my heart not being in it or you doing God knows what all to sink each ship." 

"Yes. I must apologize for all that. I was a bit. Jealous." 

John glowed. No other word for it. "Really?" The happiness flickered, became unsteady. "Then, my God, when you came back, and I and Mary--" 

"Quite." 

The light was eclipsed now. John looked devastated. "I asked you to be my Best Man." 

_This won't do._ "John, of course you did. And I was honored. I truthfully meant it when I didn't even understand that I was your best friend until that time. I had no idea what kind of claim you would tolerate."

The warmth was not returning to John's eyes. "I broke your heart," he said. Bleaker, "I was in love with you, and I threw it away." 

Sherlock could take no more. He took John's face in his hands and kissed him until John responded. It was a tender connection, the presence of Watson between them keeping them physically apart and their movements calm. Sherlock kissed and kissed, licking gently, then nibbling sweetly on John's lips and chin until John's breathing was easier and the look in his eyes lost the desolation that had invaded them.

They stilled at last, foreheads resting together. They exchanged words of love then. Quiet, simple and earnest. 

"I would die for you, for any of them. But I realized that I wanted to live for you."

"I thought I was doing what you wanted me to do. To protect our friendship. I never once thought of asking for what I really wanted." 

"Just you."

"Only you." 

* * *

Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom. Tears and kisses still lingered, but they had decided to pause for the night. This was a beginning to much they could share and learn about and heal from together. Time for more on the morrow and the next day and the next... 

By habit, he counted John's footsteps sounding a path with Watson up to their room. The tread was a bit slow. At least he knew John was as reluctant to let the night end as he was.

Sherlock undressed unthinking. Letting shirt and trousers fall where they would. He curled up naked under the sheets, feeling tender points on his neck and breast. Touching his sensitive lips, allowing himself to be dazed and bemused. His confidence before John was more than partly show. The rapture of the full reveal of John's emotions, and the glory of his touch had far surpassed his greatest hopes for the evening. Care, and esteem, and love, and even desire. How could he contain the joy. How could he believe that John loved him in every way he might have longed for. 

Letting John walk away felt unnatural and wrong. As though he'd sent the soldier upstairs entrusted with right hand or his still pumping heart. Left stranded and unfinished below in his absence. But he breathed a deep sigh, thinking of the night. Remembering John's cheeky smile when he told Watson how "the man he loved" needed to sleep or he'd be in a real strop tomorrow. 

_There need be no heaven. Paradise could not compare._

He was drifting into a limbo state between consciousness and dreams when he heard the door open. John stood framed in the light from the street. His hair a halo, his face a blank dark space. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock groped upwards toward consciousness, thinking where his clothes were, his phone. What was needed. 

"Shhhh... love, it's fine." John stepped inside closing the door behind him. He came close to the bed. Sherlock could now see a faint glow in one of his hands. The baby monitor. 

"Is this alright? I can't. I just can't be so close to you but not with you tonight," John said.

Sherlock reached out and drew his John to him. Their mutual sighs agreement enough. 

"John." 

"Mmmmm. Yes. Huh?" 

"In your hand. Oh, good. Please do take that shirt off." 

"What? Oh!" John had begun undressing. He interrupted himself to place the monitor on the table by Sherlock's bed.

"Much better. And in a moment, it will be even better still." Sherlock scrabbled at John's buttons, until a memory occurred to John.

"Wait, let me this time, my love." He heard Sherlock's in-drawn breath at his words. John slowly opened his shirt and laid it aside. He touched Sherlock's chest reverently with his hand. Reading a history of brutality carved into his lover's flesh. 

"What is it John?"

"I want to remember this moment." And slid his body close. 

* * *

Sherlock was learning that 221B looked very different from within the circle of John Hamish Watson's arms. Partly because it entailed a close up look at the doctor himself. John lay quiet beneath Sherlock. The breath moving slowly in and out of his body. The heat of his skin warming the detective inside and out. 

Sherlock continued to observe. He felt the texture of John's chest against his cheek. Watson was quiet in the monitor. But from the quality of the light in the window and the movements the child was beginning to make, Sherlock knew soon they would need to rise and attend. He welcomed it all. 

The whole world looked different from inside John's arms. It looked a lot like home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finished! Thank you so much to all who read. I am so grateful for your comments and kudos. 
> 
> Special thanks and gratitude to [Slow_Burn_Sally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/), [Silvergirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvergirl/), [Loveismyrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/), [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/), [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/) and [siephilde42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siephilde42/) for your continued encouragement, and inspiration as talented writers in your own rights. 
> 
> Wishing you the best!


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years on. Summer holidays begin. Someone is busy.

John was disappointed but not surprised to see the bed beside him empty when he woke.

Motes of dust swirled in the bright sunlight spilling in through the window, but just a few. He heard the sound of stringed instruments being played together quietly from beyond and found himself calculating how long it had been since his husband and daughter had risen together. Some hours he would say.

A weekend morning leading off the summer holidays. If it was him that was six and so newly released from the grind of school, he’d not be seen until noon at the earliest. But here was his girl, up at dawn, dragging her Papa downstairs to get cracking on one of her learning goals for the season.

On a magnetic white board slapped onto the fridge were written 5 practical objectives which Rosie had chosen. The neat angular characters of the words were in a hand that still made John’s eyes brighten and his lips curl upward when he saw them. They showed up on sketches of dead bodies scattered around the flat, as well as in oddly formal love notes tucked into a book he might be reading. Sometimes neatly curled around his stethoscope. _(“The heartbeat may reflect a frequency of desire, but this instrument cannot capture the depth of my love for you.”)_

Topmost of Rosie’s goals was to play a concert for her family during their annual visit to her _Grand-père_ and _Grand-mère’s_ country house before returning to her classes. She had worked with her musical father to create a slate of pieces and schedule for practice. Early morning hours allowed for family time that included John during the day. One wall of Rosie’s room was slowly being consumed with charts and plans for this and her other objectives. It had been an actual fight for John to insist on her blocking out--at minimum--two days per week where there was no scheduled activity, not even outings with her _chers parents_. Sherlock supported him, but he could see the pride the detective felt in Rosie’s independence and ambitious planning. John had to laugh thinking of his own slapdash relationship with school until he found medicine, and his sister Harriet’s disastrous career in academia. _Anyone who ever downplays nurture in favor of nature in my hearing will get an earful._

Rousing himself, John pulled on pajamas and his own soft, worn robe. He as often as not wore one of Sherlock’s delightful silky ones. In an unguarded moment Sherlock had confessed that the swish of the too-long silk against John’s ankles was an incredible turn on. But John loved his old flannel robe, too. As much for its well-loved, cozy comfort as its tattered unkempt appearance. It riled his ever so posh detective into making passive aggressive suggestions about burning the robe and making John visit Harrod's with him. Tugging the belt tight, John reflected that he won out either way. Whether egging his detective into fashion frustration or eliciting sidelong glances at his ankles, the joy of teasing the brilliant, aggravating, soul-consuming, covertly kind man who now shared his life was never-ending.

Musing happily on the day before him, John headed down to the kitchen to tackle his own contribution to the start of the day. A proper British fry up. 

* * *

Two slender figures stood near one of the large windows overlooking Baker Street. One tall and dark, the other diminutive and golden haired. Each held an appropriately scaled-violin and stood half facing the other, half facing well-burdened music stands. Rosie Watson’s sheaf of papers was topped by a chart showing the great stave[1] with both clefs. It had examples of each type of musical notation and a table below showing the relative lengths of notes and pauses. A second sheet beside it summarized a variety of time signatures. Those most common and some not so very.

Rosie was peering closely at the first reference sheet. Her small shoulders were tense. She mouthed words silently to herself. The man beside her watched patiently, his forehead starting to furrow in worried lines.

“Watson. What is it?”

“I’m trying to remember all the bits in demi..semi..” She hesitated.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. _Oh, Bee. Violet would be so proud._

“Hemi,” he prompted, “Then repeat..”

“—demisemi!” Rosie chanted victoriously. “Demisemihemidemisemiquaver,”[2] she began muttering the phrase under her breath. Sherlock rolled his eyes and glanced towards the kitchen. _But John would never forgive me._

“Sweetheart. That’s an almost never used notation. You don’t have to worry about playing that fraction of a note now, or perhaps ever.” He put his own instrument back into its case. Turned to his daughter and tugged the violin gently from her hands. She resisted for a moment, the ghost of a full Watson huff clouding her eyes briefly. Then a tired little girl looked out of the familiar blue. He pulled her up into his arms and brought them both over to his chair by the fireplace. He sat down and settled her on his lap. She leaned against him, his arms around her. He felt the focused energy that had brought her and him through the long, early morning begin to dissipate, and her slight frame melted cozily against his own.

However, the wheels in that young mind were still turning. “Are there really over a dozen kinds of pauses?” 

“Yes. For each of the lengths of notes, there may be an equal pause, or break. And other types.”

She nodded against him. “I’ll memrize them, too.” He stroked her hair, that ashen head full of golden waves bringing an echo of her absent mother into the eyes of those who knew and loved the child best.

Sherlock watched his daughter as he sought words to address the many challenges this small person took on, all the winding paths and dead ends he saw before her. As well as open roads and vast horizons. In true Watson fashion, she surprised him before he could begin. 

“Papa why can’t Dada read music? I can, and I’m only six.” Inquisitive young eyes narrowed and soft eyebrows quirked. 

In response to his daughter’s words, Sherlock’s mouth moved slightly in what his husband would have called an indulgent manner. But his eye took on a light that would have betrayed quite a different meaning to his closest confidant. That certain glimmer only the hunt lent this unique soul. _Ah, this will do quite well._

“Little Bee, very good reflection. But within your question there are some assumptions you may benefit from letting us examine. Let’s think about this. Who else can read music?”

Rosie straightened her back. The blonde head tilted and the tip of her small pink tongue made a brief appearance. “ _Grand-mère_ can. She plays the flute with us sometimes. We played with her and Uncle My on the piano at the country house.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t know…”

“Think about the winter holidays.”

“Ah! Aunt Molly can. She plays the guitar, and Nana Hudson does as well.”

“Do you know who else plays the guitar?”

“Who?”

“Your Uncle Gerard.”

A very sharp look from small deep blue eyes. “Papa. It’s Uncle Greg, and you know it.”

“That’s right! I’m glad to have your quick young mind to remind me. Old ones sometimes forget these things.”

“You’re not old, Papa!”

“Let’s not debate this Watson. You said that Molly read music because she played the guitar. So by that logic, Uncle Geoffrey would as well.”

“Greg, Papa!”

“Goodness. I will remember one of these days. Chief Inspector Lestrade. That I can recall. Let us test your inferences, Bee. Whom have you seen read music?”

“ _Grand-mère_ , Nana, Uncle My..”

“But not Molly, and not Lestrade?”

“No, but they play so..”

“Let’s set that aside, Watson. I have another question for you. Whom have you never seen play an instrument?”

“Well, _Grand-père_. I’ve never seen him play.”

“And..”

“And Dada!”

“You may add Aunt Harriet and Aunt Clara to that list as well, I believe.”

The small face scrunched up. “No, I did see Aunt Clara play the piano at a Holiday Fair when we visited.”

“Good remembering, Watson! You have more hands-on information than do I in that area. It’s important to always search your own knowledge when investigating. And also to not neglect other, reliable sources of intelligence which you have available to you. Our information is incomplete about our relatives in Leeds. Whom could we consult?”

Two heads turned to look toward the kitchen. Very alike smiles lit up on very dis-similar faces.

“Dada!!” High and low voices shouted.

“What? What is it? Are you done with your morning lessons?” John wandered out of the kitchen. He had traded his comfy robe for a blue apron emblazoned in white with 'Kiss the Cook.' He leaned against the door frame looking over at them. He smiled at the small serious amber head close to the taller head crowned with inky black curls. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”

Watson looked up at Sherlock, who inclined his head slightly and let a smile enter his eyes. Rosie smiled confidently at this encouragement and asked her father, "Does _Tante_ Harry play an instrument?”

John had fielded enough questions out of the blue both from his detective and now his daughter--whose apprenticeship had seemed to start shortly after birth--that he took this query in stride.

“No, Rosie. She did try, when she was at Uni. She was actually in a punk band, singing. She tried to pick up the bass, but it just didn’t take. Why?”

Sherlock spoke up. “Watson is exploring her knowledge of musicians in the family.”

“Anything else you need to know now?”

“Do you play anything, Dada?”

“’Fraid not, Bee. Have to leave it to your Papa to teach you about that. I’d best get back. Don’t want the bacon fried to a cinder, do we now?” He disappeared into the kitchen waving his hand at a cloud of smoke that backed up his words.

“What did you gather, Watson? Aside from the obvious information about your Aunt Harriet.”

“I’ve been overlooking another instrument. The voice.”

“Yes, but that may help us here. Let’s return to our earlier question, with this information at hand. Who can we add to your list of those whom we have seen read music?

“No one. Just what we knew before, that _Tante_ Clara had some music at the fair.”

“Consult your memory. Any other informative details?”

“Uncle My didn’t have music when we played. _Grand-mère_ did, but the three of us knew the song, so we didn’t need sheet music.”

“Outstanding. But you know he reads?”

“Yes. He corrected _Grand-mère_ on a section she had played afterwards.”

“Not very polite way to treat one’s parent is it?”

“No, Papa,” Rosie said demurely, though Sherlock recalled amusedly to himself her actions from just earlier that spoke differently. Her eyes opened wide as a memory occurred and she continued, “Oh! But _Grand-père_ does read. He’s helped me with my violin homework when we’ve been on holiday. But I’ve never seen him play.”

“All right, Watson. This is plenty of data." Sherlock lifted Rosie off his lap and they returned to the music stands together. Sounds of life were increasing outside. The friendly lilt of Mrs Hudson chatting with a neighbor came up to them from below. A car passing by backfired. Sherlock noted his own internal moment of alarm, but showed nothing externally. He was pleased to see that his child had no reaction to the noise. _We've done right by her._

The detective pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a marker, worldlessly offering his scribing services to the child. "Let’s sort this out and see if it can help you answer your original question, or if we have need of more information gathering. What are your lines of inquiry?”

“We know who in the family plays music. We know whom I’ve seen read music.” Sherlock made three columns on the page, placing these categories at the top of two and adding a third 'Reads Music.' They took some time and added the names Watson had arrived at in the appropriate column, matching those who appeared twice and leaving gaps for those who did not re-occur. The third column remained blank

“Good. Now, how shall we proceed? What is proper procedure from here, Watson?”

“We see what can be eliminated from the investigation. What doesn’t matter. Then we…” She paused.

“Assess. We see how trustworthy the evidence is. And determine if there is sufficient evidence to justify a conclusion. Also, attend Bee, this is something new. There are other paths of investigation that you and others will use. You may not even realize you are doing it, but knowing if you are doing so **will** help you clarify your mind in order to rid yourself of bias.”

“Bias?”

“Prejudices.”

“That means intolerant, doesn’t it? I don’t want to be prejudiced.”

“You’re not, dear one. Well, we all are. Hm. Let’s set that question aside for a time when we can talk about that with your Dada as well. Let me summarize. What we’ve done already is to explore the observation you had today: 'Dada does not read music.' Your investigatory question is, ‘Why?’ Now let’s look at the assumptions you’ve made. This will help us supply an example for you to learn the methods from.”

“What did I ‘sume, Papa?”

“First off, we discussed it already. How do we know if someone can read music? You have used two ways of determining. What are they?”

“If I see them read music, and if they play an instrument.”

“And what do you know about who plays an instrument?”

“Many of my relatives do play. But some don’t. And all of them may sing even if they don’t play an instrument.”

“Any of them may sing. Some who play an instrument, may not sing. Your Aunt Molly’s voice is regrettably deplorable.”

“Dada has a beautiful singing voice. You, too, Papa.”

“Thank you, Little Bee. And you as well, though it is still developing. I can add information that is not available to you. I know for a fact that Chief Inspector Lestrade cannot read music.”

“But he plays the guitar?”

“Correct. He can read chords, and he can play by ear.” A quizzical expression. "He listens and can reproduce melodies but without using notes on the stave." He watched her taking that in, nodded and went on, "So here we have that second form of investigation, Bee. You take an assumption about the world and apply it to individuals that seem to relate. But what does it tell you if you are wrong about the individuals whom you’ve made these assumptions about?"

"My assumptions were wrong?"

"Correct! That is the danger of creating a theory and applying assumptions, Watson. You are vulnerable to your own biases. There is no way to be perfectly unbiased, but I have found that beginning with observable data, investigating them, then testing what you observe can lead you to strong conclusions. Testing your own assumptions is another critical piece."

"So was I wrong?" She sighed, looking down.

Sherlock put his hand on Rosie's shoulder. She looked up at him. "Watson, you will always be wrong." Her eyes widened and he saw first tremors of a collapse of her spirit. He shook his head vigorously and knelt down to be on a level with her eyes. "We always make mistakes, all of us. This is nothing to be ashamed of." Sherlock's voice was earnest, his gaze forceful. "Making a mistake means you tried. The hardest part is accepting you’ve been in error, and committing to correct that error."

Rosie blinked at him, considering. He went on in a gentler tone of voice."One of the strongest people I know is your Dada. One of his strengths is that he is willing to see where he is in error, and listen to others who are correct. It makes him very strong."

"Like you, Papa?"

"Perhaps. But I am stronger than when I met your Dada, because I am willing to accept more now that I can be wrong. And can listen to others who try to correct me out of love. Your father taught me that."

Rosie beamed. A romantic already. "That’s sweet, Papa."

"Don’t tell your Dada, that though young Bee, alright? We don’t want his head to get too swollen."

She crossed her heart with a finger and laughed. Then she became serious again. "So what should I assume? That's how it works, but if I'm going to be wrong, what do I do?"

"We all assume, Watson. We must in order to try to make sense of the world. Just know you **are** making assumptions, make yourself aware of them as much as you can be—accept help doing so—and then critically examine those assumptions. Find external counsel you trust to help you. And you will be right much more than you would be otherwise. And perhaps much more than you are wrong."

Rosie nodded, dismissing his heartfelt lecture and accepting the conclusion as simple common sense. She returned to the question at hand, gesturing to their chart. "So if I examine my assumptions here, Papa, it’s not very accurate to say that if someone plays an instrument or sings, that they can read music."

"Yes! Exactly." Putting his arms around her, he gave the girl a hug and lifted her off her feet, swinging her in a circle gently. Rosie laughed in delight.

"And you came to that yourself, my dear," he said as he set her back down. "Now, you have your lists. But I have one more question to ask you before we move on. This will require to you to consult your own experience again. And I’m happy to provide supporting information if you’d like. The question is: can your Dada read music?"

She looked at the page. Opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. "I thought no? But then, why would you be asking…"

“Exactly, Watson. Follow that instinct. Use your lines of investigation.”

“All right. I’ve heard Dada sing, so he's in the 'plays' column." Sherlock added him. Rosie went on, "I've never seen him read music. So he may read, but we can’t tell can we? He may sing by ear. Or he may read, like _Grand-père_ …”

"Oh, yes, let me fill in that picture. Your _Grand-père_ played the oboe when he was younger, but lost the habit and doesn’t own an instrument. However, he retains the knowledge."

“Thank you, Papa! So, I don’t know if Dada reads music."

“Excellent, Watson. That place of unknowing may be uncomfortable, but it is actually an important place to come to. You have a solid understanding of the limits of your knowledge. Rather than making an uninformed guess based on incomplete information, you can make a judicious decision about what you ascertain to be true, and how much trust to place in that conclusion.

“In this case, your experience is that he does not read music, but you cannot make a conclusion based on the evidence. Now, you could ask your Dada (or I could tell you for that matter), but for the purposes of your education, I hope you won’t mind if we let you figure this out. I have full confidence that you can, Watson. Or at the minimum, you can learn a great deal about the process of inquiry by trying.”

“All right. I will keep trying.”

“Good, Bee.”

“Dears, breakfast is ready!” came from the kitchen.

“Shall we continue after we eat?”

“Yes, Papa.”

* * *

The family enjoyed their breakfast and planned out their schedule for the day. A trip to the park, kite in hand, was in the offing. The parents debated the contents of the picnic hamper, while young Watson came down decidedly in favor of cold chicken and ice lollies from a vendor, but leaving the rest up to her parents. She returned to the music stand and her notes after being politely dismissed. John, lingering with Sherlock over fresh cups of tea and comfortably entangled feet beneath the table, watched her with some concern. 

"Don't you think she's taking this all a bit too seriously, love? I'm not sure how to be about it." 

Sherlock reached out. He covered one of John's hands where they sat locked to his tea mug. "Do you trust me, John?"

"Of course." 

"This is important to her. And it's her initiative. If we squash it now and try to take her plans away from her we'll either set ourselves at odds, or worse, ruin her enthusiasm."

"Not speaking from experience at all, are we?" They shared wry smiles. John turned his hand in Sherlock's loose hold and entwined their fingers together, squeezing. "But you have a plan?" He received nod in response. "I'll follow your lead then." 

Warmth flowed between them. Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John's fingers. He then tugged, two-fingered, at the sleeve of John's robe. Looked up at the man with an exaggerated eye roll and slight sigh. John's eyes lit up in amusement. The light reflecting back in Sherlock's eyes burned away the assumed irritation to leave only fond devotion. Then, expression not changing, he called out imperiously, "Watson! Gather your notes, we'll continue our investigations at the park!" And he was gone from the table, striding over to get Rosie ready for their outing.

In a flurry of limbs and paper, Sherlock brought their daughter up the stairs calling back down as he went, "John! Grab the case of travel toys, will you?"

John shook his head as he stripped the table of dishes and began putting their food together for the day. _What does he want with that old thing? Rosie's been too big for those blocks for ages._

* * *

The great detective sat back, his bare feet on the bright, cheery, flower-print blanket. His assignment was to protect their basket of food from incursion by ant or curious pooch. However, he was quite aware that he had been strategically benched.

He adjusted his sunglasses as he slid down in one of the low folding chairs they'd brought. He was settled in amongst the extra clothes, food hamper, and their stack of books: John's omnipresent novel, the monographs currently obsessing Sherlock, and the pile Watson had insisted they bring along despite all her active plans for the day. Bottom-most was a large volume with hand drawn mountains and runes gracing the cover. They were reading the Hobbit out loud as a family, though Rosie was reading ahead as well.

Sherlock grinned, watching their child direct his husband as he yet again ran against the wind to try and race the wheeling kite aloft. The gusting wind dropped suddenly and broad brown and purple wings tipped tail over tea kettle. Sherlock winced as the dragon's maw whacked John in the head. He half rose to run over and assess the damage, but remembered their explicit bargain about this particular activity. With a deep sigh, he settled back down.

Kite flying had been one of John's great joys as a child. Unfortunately, the pressures involved with getting the kite aloft brought out the bossiness in both Sherlock and young Watson. So each took their own part of the process. John and Rosie to get it into the sky, then each of the three taking turns holding the string and keeping each other company as moved. Sherlock took great pride in being ground crew to help Watson take the kite out of the air safely. He was constitutionally unable not to brag at least once about his clean record in avoidance of encountering what John called, 'kite eating trees.' It suited them all just fine. 

The pair recovered the kite and set up for another run. Sherlock noted with approval that they were taking his glancing advice to aim northeast and take advantage of the winds' velocity as it skimmed across the small nearby lake. They had plenty of room. The field was theirs alone. Sadly, the fact they were the only people trying for the blue today spoke pessimistically of their chances. 

"I'm sorry my prediction proved to be true," Sherlock said consolingly to his husband and child as they came back later, deflated, with kite and string in hand. "I rather wish I had been wrong." 

John snorted. He said to Rosie, "You're my witness that he said that." She giggled.

They broke into the hamper and soon were consoled with salads, fruit and chicken enough for all. Sherlock plucked out a hard boiled egg, removing the shell meticulously. The midday call to prayer from the nearby London Central Mosque rang out as they ate and rested. 

"Dada, may we stay out until they call for  al-Maghrib?"[3]

"Bee, it will be getting chilly by sunset. I expect we'll all be done in by the time we hear the mid-afternoon Adhan for Asr."[3]

"But I haven't even been to the playground yet! And Papa and I have study plans.."

"Do you now? I had thought this was one of your blue 'family time' blocks, not green for study." John aimed to avoid shooting Sherlock a frustrated, questioning glance, but only mostly succeeded. Sherlock took up the thread.

"I'm sorry, John. It was my suggestion. Bee's trying to get her plans straight for learning musical notation and I thought this would be a good opportunity to do some more brainstorming." 

"But you can already read music, Bee." John's statement was a question. 

"Only some things. There is so much more I need to learn." She pulled her notebook out of a backpack they'd brought and she found the charts she'd been reviewing in the morning. Various hands offered bottles, palm sized stones and other items to anchor the corners of the loose pages. She recognized one object proffered in particular. "My music blocks!" That corner tucked beneath it was instead weighted with a small shoe. The box was opened and swiftly upended. 

Small hands assembled and arranged the worn wooden blocks. Each a different pastel shade, the cubes' sides were decorated with hand-painted notes and other music-related symbols and whimsical adornments. They'd been covered with a once-glossy, clear lacquer that had been polished impossibly smooth from repeated use in some spots. In others it was crackled and split from one too many falls from atop a tower. She went through each side in turn, making a small mark on the chart next to those represented on the blocks. 

"These are the ones I know, Papa!" John sat in his chair, touching one she'd placed nearby to him with a single finger. The faint smile on his lips belied the deep gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Sherlock remained silent. Waiting. 

She continued on, addressing Sherlock. "Should we make blocks for the rest?" She picked one up, touching the whole pause symbol hanging upside down next to a tiny blue bat on the second topmost line of the staff. "I'm not sure I'd use them though." She hunted through the blocks searching for favorites. The plum colored C-note with a cardinal nesting near it; the deep green whole note with a sleepy viper curled up on a rock below. 

Sherlock nodded towards his partner. "If you do choose to, you should ask your Dada. He's the expert here." 

She scooched back, cross-legged on the blanket, until she could see both her fathers properly. John picked up the block he'd been touching and eyed it critically. Rosie considered, pieces falling into place. "You made them, Dada." 

"Yes." John offered her the block he'd been holding. "I'm so glad they were useful." She accepted the object, and placed all three on her lap. As she reached her hand up to cradle her chin, her tongue peeked out between her lips. 

"What does this add to your other investigation, Watson?"

"I'm not sure, Papa." She stood up, scattering the blocks, and walked over to John. Climbing up into his lap as she spoke. "I'm trying to figure out if you can read music, Dada. By process of elimination." 

"I could just tell-" John's mouth was stoppered by two small hands. He smiled. 

"Don't! I want to figure it out. I didn't have enough information, but I think I do now." He nodded and she removed her hands. Sherlock looked on, his hand steepled before his chin and a twinkle in his eyes. 

John said, "I would never interfere. Not when the game is afoot." His daughter gave him an odd look then shrugged. _Adults._

"Come, Watson. Give us your thoughts. Remember what I said. You're plenty strong." At that, John gave his detective a look askance, but his daughter giggled and started speaking.

"Dada sings, but doesn't play. We can ignore this. It doesn't tell us at all whether he can read music, since people can do both or one or neither. I've never **seen** Dada read music, but now I know that he made blocks for me that helped me learn." She broke off from her soliloquy to give her father a hug. "Thanks, Dada," she said softly. John squeezed her back wordlessly.

She resumed her thoughts, "What else do I know? I know that Dada is caring, and thoughtful. He tries to help people however he can, at the hospital, volunteering and also taking cases with you, Papa. I know he's brave and strong," she gave a secret smile to Sherlock, "and not afraid of trying something new."

"And also, Bee, he's extremely intelligent."

John, who was squirming in his seat at the unexpected praise being heaped upon him, took this opportunity to tease and hope for some change of topic soon, "Long way from slightly less idiotic than everyone else, eh?" 

"Feh. I suppose I may have to take my words back, Watson. Your Dada knows best, of course." 

"Are you two fighting?"

"Yes."

"No." 

"Shhh.. I'm not done yet." She rolled her eyes, and both men chuckled. She glared at them until they stilled. 

Sherlock stepped in, "So, what is your final conclusion, Watson?"

She leaned back and looked up at her silver-haired parent. "You cannot read music. But you wanted to help me learn. And so you learned enough to make those blocks. And now, you don't play, or sing with music, but you remember what you learned. Like _Grand-pere_. Because you are clever."

She whispered, "You're not an idiot, Dada."

"Thank you, Bee. I'd hope not," he said in the same tone of voice.

"Excellent, Watson. And let me ask you something else: why doesn't your Dada read music? You may not know exactly why, but you have some information here that may allow you to draw some well-informed conclusions about this as well."

Rosie was deep in thought. "Aunt Harry didn't play before college and she didn't pick it up. _Grand-père_ learned but didn't keep doing it. Uncle My can read and play, but he's rude about it." 

John snorted with laughter. Sherlock shushed him with a gesture but smiled as well. "Don't distract her. Keep going, Bee. What did you have that has allowed you to learn?"

Her eyes went wide. "You. And Dada." She looked at John, her eyes taking on the thousand mile stare he'd seen so many times on his husband's face. "You and _Tante_ Harry didn't have anyone to teach you. You were so happy to help me that you learned, too." She picked up a block. "Did your mother sing to you, Dada?"

John caught his breath. He barely ever spoke of either of his parents to his child. "Yes, Rosie. How did you..?"

"It's music you do. And you used to sing to me when you were putting me to sleep. So maybe your mother, or your father sang to you?"

John started breathing again. "Amazing. Of course, Bee. She did." Rosie lit up. 

Sherlock's eyes were full of pride, but he said, "Careful, Bee. Watch the assumptions. I played violin for you at night, but my mother never did that." 

John rolled his eyes. "Can you not allow her to have a moment of triumph? That was fantastic, Sherlock. Sure you must admit."

"It's all right, Dada," said Rosie. "Papa is helping me to be stronger." Sherlock nodded. John looked at both of them, confused. Then his brow cleared. He put his arm around Rosie, and reached out to his husband. 

"I trust you." 

* * *

Dusk found the trio packing up amid lengthening shadows at the park. The afternoon had been full, involving a great deal of time at the playground for Rosie. Several new friends' contact information had been retrieved.

It lingered in John's mind as he gathered their things in the low light. A candidate for perfect moments. Rosie happy, in her element. Finding old friends and making new acquaintances in a large group of children hopping from swing to slide. The timber fort, a series of wooden platforms and walkways, became frigate and brig in battles that left their Rosie flushed and excitably full of stories of derring do by her and her crew. 

John had enjoyed a long quiet time watching her from his place lying on the blanket. His latest novel cracked open in his hands, husband tucked into the crook of his arm, long forgotten phone slipped down on the sleeping man's chest. The puffs of breath from that beautiful mouth proof of life, like their child's happy cries beneath a wide open sky. John breathed it in again in memory. Deep and solid and his. 

They were well on their way back to Baker Street by the time the call for evening prayer did ring out at the Mosque, but John had to admit that his daughter had been right. He carried their now-empty basket, and other bags.

Sherlock carried a very tired child on his back. He was refreshed from his nap earlier, though he'd sooner hug Mycroft than ever volunteer that fact. But he could never pretend to regret the inviting smile, stirring kiss, and quiet "hello, beautiful" that had greeted his awakening.

The two men traded silent glances as they slipped down the street. Solitary stars showed their faces overhead, glimmering in the refuge of darkness created by Regent's Park's lightless expanse of green. 

Sherlock felt Watson fidget on his back. "Stay still, Bee. You're getting big to carry this way. We'll be home soon." 

"Papa, I'd like to start by memorizing all the pauses. Dada can help me find clever ways to draw them so they are easier to remember." 

"He'll be thrilled to help. Good choice." 

"And then, maybe he could learn more, too? Do you think he'd like to learn an instrument to play with us?" 

"He can sing, dear. Perhaps we can come to him. Let's think about a piece we could play to accompany his voice." She nodded sleepily. John beside them smiled, the warmth in his heart slowing his steps to encourage this moment to last.

"Watson, may I tell you a story about pauses?" Sherlock felt her nod into his neck. "There's one you'll learn that your Dada would like. It's called the train tracks."

"Why?" 

"It's the funny pair of lines that come down at an angle across the staff. Did you see that one?" Another sleepy nod. "Good. We'll look at it more in time. This is a special kind of a pause. It's also called a caesura. But train tracks is a good way to think of it. When you come to train tracks, you always have to wait, right Bee?"

"Yes, Papa."

"If a train is coming, you wait for it to pass. If there's nothing there, and if an adult says it is safe, then you can cross. It's like that in the music with the caesura." 

"How long is it for?"

"That just the thing. It's special because it isn't a counted like a note. It's time out of time. You don't count the beats, and you don't know when it will start up again."

"So how do you know when to play?"

"You look to the director or the conductor to tell you if you should pause, and for how long, and when it is 'safe' to cross the tracks and start going again. That's when you play." He felt her thoughtful nod. Rosie nestled her head against his neck and he felt her body grow slack and relaxed. "Are you still awake, Bee?"

"I am." He felt her lift her head up slightly. John brushed against his side. Speedy's was in sight now. 

"There is a secret about all pauses. Can I tell you now? Will you remember?" Little limbs shifted and a head shook itself awake, her hair batting lightly against his own. 

"Yes, Papa," she said with sleepy determination. _You can trust a Watson with a mission._

"Good, little Bee. All breaks are there to help you get what you need. Maybe it's a breath, or to start a new note. Sometimes it's so that you are quiet while someone else is playing or singing. Sometimes it's so that everyone will listen better to what they just heard. And sometimes, Bee, sometimes, it's so that you and everyone else you are playing with will start again, together. Sometimes we have to stop what we are doing, to start again, in the right way. Does that make sense, little Bee?"

"I think so. But..but why is that secret?"

"It's not a secret that we have to hide, Bee. It's a secret because once you understand it, it opens your eyes to something others may see but not observe." The detective felt John's arm come around his waist. His husband had rearranged his burdens to the other side. His gaze as he met Sherlock's eyes was gentle and full. Sherlock felt Watson release her hold on his shoulder and put her hand on her Dada's hair. Then John's head rested against him, too.

They arrived at their door, and the family left the soft darkness for the warmth and light they knew would greet them above. Together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1[ **The Great Stave (in British English) or Grand Staff:**](https://www.essential-music-theory.com/grand-staff.html) two musical staves, the five lines with notes used in modern staff notation to represent music. The grand stave has both [G-clef (or treble clef)](https://www.allaboutmusictheory.com/musical-staff/g-clef/) and [C-clef (or bass clef)](https://www.allaboutmusictheory.com/musical-staff/c-clef/) above and below together. Derived from notation created by Guido of Arrezo, a Tuscan monk, circa 1025 CE. [return to text]
> 
> 2 **Demisemihemidemisemiquaver:** [a two hundred fifty-sixth note.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_hundred_fifty-sixth_note) [return to text]
> 
> 3 **Salat al-Maghrib, Salat al-Asr:** two of the daily [prayer times](https://www.mprnews.org/story/2016/02/01/explaining-daily-prayer-in-islam) observed in Islam. Asr is afternoon prayer. Maghrib is at sunset.  
>  **Adhan, or Azan:** the [call to prayer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjFZqCG_vgY) sung at Mosques such as the [London Central Mosque](https://www.iccuk.org/) next to Regent's Park in London. [return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the joy that is violin music. I've always loved that aspect of Sherlock. This realm of beauty and emotional expression that balances out all his love of logic and cold demeanor. Writing this story has been a real gift. Taught me about traditions of violin, the wide range of spike violins found in the Middle East, India and Eastern Europe, and many other instruments with ancient histories and tremendous beauty. 
> 
> Also informed by the example of writings of various authors in this fandom: [standbygo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/) and [BeautifulFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/) for setting such high bars on concision, wordcraft and meaning; [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/) and [7PercentSolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/) for their insightful interpretations of Sherlock and family (along with every other good thing about writing); and [khorazir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/) and [BakerTumblings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings) for making stories and characters windows into communities of craft, tradition and expertise.
> 
> And thanks to my friend, cheerleader and first reader [Slow_Burn_Sally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/) for helping me have the confidence to write.
> 
> With the epilogue this story is now complete. Hoping to return to these sweet folks some day. Thank so much for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moodboard/Fic Cover for "Caesura" by emilycare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29733162) by [Loveismyrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution)




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